


It's A Blue Box, Who Cares?

by needs_more_horseradish



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Major Character Death but only technically, Mary is a complex person, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Post-Season/Series 04, a whole lotta sci-fi bullshit, heed the tags as the story develops, of sorts, season 4 fix-it, takes place just before "The Husbands of River Song", the Sotaran Empire makes a guest appearance, time-travel related confusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/needs_more_horseradish/pseuds/needs_more_horseradish
Summary: A blue box is standing at a train station, with no clues as to how it got there.It's the perfect riddle. And chances are it will ruin Mycroft's day somehow.





	1. Idolater

 

"You're not seeing this? Seriously?"

"Of course I'm seeing it, I just don't understand why you're making such a fuss about it."

"What's it _doing_ here? No, let me rephrase that. What's it doing _here_?"

"Sherlock... it's a blue box. Who cares?"

 

They had been in the middle of a murder case. It had been exhilerating, chasing the suspect across the London Underground, just like old times. John, now widowed, with a child that, according to the babysitter, was "Just darling, when she doesn't cry her lungs out", and Sherlock, with a freshly renovated flat and an institutionalized sister he barely remembered but visited regurlary to play the violin with her.

A sort of normalcy had been reached.

If you could call solving puzzles and catching criminals out of boredom normal. Which they did, thank you very much, no need to be so judgemental towards people's preferred ways to pass the time.

 

Anyways, they had been following the chef of a noble restaurant who, in all likelyhood, had poisoned an old friend of his over a dispute concerning a valuable baroque amoire ("Furniture, John. They are killing loved ones for furniture now. Had IKEA closed?") up to Angel Station, when Sherlock stopped dead in this tracks.

"Why did we stop?" John had asked bewildered.

Sherlock had given no answer, instead he had walked up frowning towards a big blue box that was standing unseemingly in the corner.

 

"I remember this vaguely", John had said bemused, "it's an old police box."

He then immediately bit his tongue.

The words POLICE BOX stood in bold, proud letters for everyone to see on top of the box.

Sherlock threw him a disbelieving look that screamed _oh yes well done Mister Poirot, whereever would we be without you_ , making any verbal scathing remarks unnecessary.

 

They were arguing now. Well, not exactly. Sherlock was arguing while texting Lestrade the details of what he had found out about the case ("We have enough on him. Just let the police pick him up when he gets home to get his stuff. Not our job anymore" "-Are you serious right now?!?" "Yes. Case closed. There are more important things right now." "What, the box?" "Yes John, the box. You're not seeing this? Seriously?"). John was rubbing his face very hard wondering if today was the day Sherlock had finally, actually, gone insane.

 

"John, can't you see how weird this is? The box is weird! It shouldn't be here!"

"So what, the City forgot to get this one removed, big deal."

"Except I know every inch of the London Underground, and I know for a fact that this thing wasn't here two months ago."

"...Okay yes that's odd. But not enough reason to let a murderer run free, bloody hell."

"We're not letting him run free, the police is taking over. Let them do their job for once."

"You saying that is honestly weirder than anything."

"John!" Sherlock cried out and made an angry framing gesture towards the offending box. John imitated the gesture and then shrugged descidedly, throwing his hands in the air as if to say _So what?_

 

Sherlock scoffed at him and turned to the police box again, looking it up and down as if he could dissect it just with his eyes.

John felt an odd prickling on his skin. The box was entirely unremarkable to him. Just looking at it bored the hell out of him. He actually had to force himself to keep looking at his friend cycling the bloody thing, so disinterested he was in this out-of-date waste of space.

 

"This is bollocks", John muttered.

Then, because saying it had felt good and right, he yelled out: "This is bollocks! I'm going home, Sherlock", startling some people who were waiting for their train to Edgware.

Sherlocks gaze jumped unsure between John and the box a few times, before he seemed to come to a descision. "Oh do go home then. I'll text you when I have solved this."

 

"What's to solve? There's nothing to solve", John said to himself as he was leaving Angel Station and started searching for a cab. It looked like rain. It would serve Sherlock right to get into bad weather. The git.

 

It didn't rain that evening. It also didn't rain the following days. The clouds were gliding listlessly across the sky, covering not only the sky above half of England, but also bits of France and the Netherlands, the whole of Belgium and the coast of Ireland. On the news they said you practically couldn't see the sun in Newcastle anymore. So business as always. The prospect of bad weather lingered in everybodys consciousness like a faraway dream. Autumn was near.

 

Otherwise, things were lovely for John. Every day he made breakfast for himself and Rosie, chatted with the babysitter, Verena, who always brought along her own two-year old, he went to work, he had a sandwich and coffee for lunch, he went home and listened to the brabbling happiness that was his daughter.

Sherlock never texted once. How very childish of him, John thought, even for his standards. They didn't even have a proper row. There was no reason to sulk.

 

Three days after Sherlock and John had last spoken to each other Verena told John that she had a dentists appointment on Tuesday because of a root canal and couldn't come in, so John descided he was gonna be the mature one and ask Sherlock not to be a shithead, and also, could he please watch Rosie that day?

Just as John had send his text he got a call from Greg Lestrade.

 

"Hey, is Sherlock alright?" The DI asked, both annoyed and worried.

"Why shouldn't he be?" John asked, as Verena sat down her daughter into the play pen with Rosie and took off her parka.

"He isn't going on his bloody phone! I've been trying to reach him for two days now. Sent text after text, I even called..."

Dammit, now John was worried too. He started thinking frantically while Greg let out his frustration by yelling. Where could Sherlock be?

John should've tried to reach him earlier. True, he had his moods, but those were... internal moods, they had nothing to do with the outside world. Sherlock didn't just break off all communication because things got heated. He had even _told_ John he'd text him. It was literally the last thing Sherlock had said to him: _I'll text you when I have solved this._

 

Somewhere inside John's head, deep in his frontal lobe, it made "click".

 _Oh_ , he thought.

 _Uh_ , he continued thinking, _really?_

 

"If he's dead", Greg said, just as John tuned back in to him, "I'm gonna be so cross with him -"

"Greg, I think I know where he is."

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

 _I don't believe this_ , John thought as he returned to the spot he had left Sherlock at the beginning of the week to find him still there.

 

Sherlock had assumed his usual thinking position, his fingertips steepled under his chin, sitting cross-legged in front of the damned blue box, fixating it with his eyes, the eyes of a man who hadn't slept in ages, a generous three-day stubble gracing his face. Someone had set a ratty old hat next to Sherlock to be funny, and as John threw in a half-hearted look he spotted several pounds worth of coins, a canadian five dollar bill, and a condom (unused).

John cleared his throat.

No reaction.

"Oh for Pete's sake" John pressed out and stooped down to gently shake Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock startled and blinked confused up John's nostrils.

"Are you telling me", John's voice rumbled dangerously low, "that you have been sitting here for the last three days, _thinking_?"

"Not quite", Sherlock croaked back, his voice hoarse from disuse, "I have been inspecting the object in question for several hours. Then I've gone and bullied some people in charge to show me the recordings of the security cameras, and before you ask, no, it wasn't Mycroft, he does have other things to do, you know. Sadly, the cameras were not pointed at the police box, but from the recordings I know that nobody carried it here. Then I came back here, climbed on top of the box and inspected it some more."

"And then?"

He focused back on the box behind John. "Then I've sat down and had a think, yes."

John breathed slowly out through his nose. "Okay", he said, and then, just to make himself feel better, he added "Alright, okay."

He drove a hand over his face.

"Sherlock", he said, trying his best to keep the edge from his voice, "do you realise-"

"I've tried to get in" Sherlock fell in.

"Into the box?"

"Yes, I've tried to pick the lock."

"Okay. And what happened?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered. “I couldn't get in” he said conspiratorially.

Despite, or maybe because of him being very tense right now, John couldn't help but huff out a laugh. “Maybe you're not as good a lock picker as you thought you were.”

This made Sherlock's head snap up and look at him properly for the first time, his brows raised in grave offense.

“Right. Sorry” John said.

“My skills as a lock picker are not the problem.” Sherlock shot the box an angry look. “The damn thing won't _let_ me in.”

 

_Oh, Christ._

 

“John, I'm telling you, when I tried to pick the lock it hissed at me!”

 

 _It's genetic_ , John thought with a pang of horror. First Euros, now Sherlock. Or this were subsequent damages of his drug abuse making themselves known.

Or perhaps the stress of the last year had finally caught up with him.

 

There was something particulary devastating about the idea of _Sherlock Holmes_ of all people loosing it. The mental image of Sherlock spending the rest of his life locked up, not unsimilar to his sister, made John's skin crawl. He pushed the thought back deep down into the deepest pits of his psyche,where he stored his worst nightmares and regrets. This isn't helpful, Doctor Watson, focus.

First things first.

„Sherlock, when did you last eat or drink?“

„Huh? What kind of question is that, I was having breakfast at your place just before Lestrade called us for the case with the chef and the armoire. You made scrambled eggs and coffee, you know that John, you were there.“

 

Okay.

 

John closed his eyes and promised himself he would not get loud.

„So you didn't have anything to eat or drink for five days. Okay. Fine. That's... a start.“

John stared into the distance for a few seconds before his jaw set and he sniffled hard.

„You stay here“, he said, got up and out of Sherlock's sight.

 

When he returned, John shuffled back into Sherlock's field of vision, holding up a protein bar and a two-litre bottle of water, and smiled a very pointed smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

Using his dad-voice he had just used this morning to get Rosie to eat her mashed carrots, he said: „Now look here Sherlock, what I want you to do, as your friend, and as your Doctor, is that you eat this“, he wiggled slightly with the bar in his one hand, then with the bottle in the other, „and you drink this, because you are very close to collapsing, and if you don't do as I say, I'm going to call an ambulance _right now,_ and then I'm going to order a psych eval. Yes?“

Sherlock looked astonished into the face of his friend, who looked back at him with an iceberg-like sweetness. For a while they held each other's gaze.

Playing poker.

Eventually, Sherlock folded.

 

At first, he just nibbled at the bar, but midthrough he realized that he was really damn famished, actually, and gulped the food and water down like nothing.

John had taken place next to him and waited. The protein bar was gone, and Sherlock now slowly drank the water while the life slowly seemed to seep back into his face.

 

„It must have been a hallucination“, Sherlock said eventually, „the box hissing, I mean.“

John didn't move.

„I should go home and get some sleep“, Sherlock went on, „come back the day after tomorrow, get a fresh perspective on it.“

John breathed slowly through his nose, and a thought came to him.

„Explain this to me Sherlock“, he said quietly, all agressive nicety gone from his expression. „I want to understand you“

 

Sherlock's mouth pulled into a smile. _I want to understand you._ That was not something said by John Watson the Friend.

He knew John Watson the Scientist existed, out of necessety, a subset of John Watson the Physician, but the world rarely got to see him. For Sherlock, it was like meeting a rare sort of tropic bug he had only read about until know. He was delighted. He took a deep gulp of water, set the bottle down at his knee and started to collect his thoughts. Sherlock wanted to get this right, wanted John to understand _this_.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Listened to the activities of the train station.

 

„I remember how we talked about the solar system once“, he said finally.

John raised an eyebrow, but kept quiet.

„I remember you were puzzled, if not to say offended, by my lack of interest for this particular topic.

I never understood the fascination, you know? People are so obsessed with Up There“, he vaguely gestured up, towards way beyond the ceilling, „but they barely even see what's happening Down Here, right in front of them.“ He turned slightly to get a better look at John.

„Celestial bodies, human bodies, matter in general, the mechanics stay the same.“ Sherlock moved his hand to John's wrist and turned it gently to show him a faint carrot mash stain at the seam of his own shirt sleeve. John hadn't even known it was there, but Sherlock had probably noticed the moment he had been made aware of John's presence.

„Things don't appear at places without somehow getting there, John. They just don't. And I can't explain how this box got here. It's...it's...“ Sherlock broke off. He looked at the _thing_ again. He got up and faced it like a ghost hunter would face the grim reaper.

„Imagine a box“, he said more to himself than to John. „How did it get where it is? We don't know yet. There are no clues. But it is unmistakenly here, in the same way the candy wrapping paper over there is, or that... who's hat is that?

 

„Huh? Oh.“ John looked at the beggar's hat that had kept Sherlock company. „I don't know. Someone's idea of a joke, I think.“

Sherlock nodded , and turned back to the box.

„It's gorgeous, John. It's elegant. It's the perfect riddle.“

His face hardened.

„And it's _bugging_ me.“

 

John was relieved. It was still not exactly normal, but it sounded like Sherlock's own brand of not exactly normal, only from a new angle. The box was too massive to get pinned to a mantlepiece with a letter opener, so John imagined that any day now Sherlock would turn up with an axe and go all Jack Nicholson on it, John (or _someone_ ) would bail him out after getting arrested for destruction of public property, and they could go on live their lives.

 

„I'm going home“, Sherlock said. He sounded exhausted. „I'm going to make some tea, and then I'll order in some fried rice and egg rolls, and then I'll sleep for a bit and then I'll come back and see what I've missed.“ He turned to John. „What do you think?“

That was as reasonable as Sherlock was going to be, and as John stood up he rewarded him with a thin smile.

„I think that's a great idea, Sherlock. Come on, I'll give you a lift.“

 

They were about to turn around and leave.

 

But then.

 

The door of the box opened.

 

They froze.

 

A man stood in the doorframe.

 

He had eyebrows that could put the fear of God in you. In his left hand he held a yellowed copy of the London Times.

„You! English people!“ he barked with a scottish accent that made Sherlock jump, „Not an immediate promise of marriage from a great admirer?“

Sherlock stared at the man as if he had gotten up straight from Molly Hooper's table.

„Eight letters?“, the man added.

 

John eventually closed his mouth. „Idolater“ he grunted, because what else was he going to say, and he did faintly remember sitting over that same clue for twenty minutes somewhat five years ago.

 

The man groaned and wrote it into the crossword puzzle. „It fits!“ he declared pleased and closed the door again.

 

„John“, Sherlock rasped helplessly, „am I having a stroke?“

„No... no, I saw him too!“

„You did?“ Sherlock knit his brows together and started to inspect John with a critical eye. „John, are _y o u_   even real?“

„Sherlock“, John let out decidedly and started to guide him away from the box, „get in my car! Tea! Eggrolls! Bed!“

 

 


	2. The Least Qualified Person in the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some french fries get recklessly abandoned.

"Of course the only thing you didn't try while examining your precious", John said, "was knocking on the damn door."

Sherlock, after sixteen hours of sleep looking quite well-rested again, was too excited to be back with the police box again to be annoyed with John's teasing.

 

"Well, of course I knocked on the walls to see if it was actually hollow, but, no, I didn't expect that someone might _live_ in that thing."

"Alright, now is the perfect moment to recify that and ask the guy What the hell is going on."

Sherlock raised his hand to knock at the door. He hesitated mid-movement.

"What are you waiting for?"

"Uhm, well, it feels a bit silly."

"Sherlock, not to react out of proportion, but if something interesting isn't happening in the next ten seconds, something is going to be set on fire."

"And you call me a drama queen" Sherlock said and knocked at the door.

 

"Can I help you?" The irritated scottish voice came from behind them.

They turned around in surprise. The elderly man with white hair, plaid trousers, Doc Martens, a simple black coat and a hoodie and, oh God, those eyebrows ( _I've never felt so judged by an old punk in my life_ John thought), stood maybe two arm-lengths before them, a pair of sunglasses in one hand and a half-eaten portion of chips in the other.

John glanced over to Sherlock, who looked the man up and down with an open mouth and a deep frown.

 

"Are you..." John didn't really know how to start this and to be honest, he wasn't even sure why this whole situation... was a situation... that was happening. "Do you live in there?" he finally managed and pointed at the box.

"Yes", the man said.

"Bit small, don't you think?"

"No, mostly I hang around in the same room anyways. Probably might as well get rid of the swimming pool, I've been meaning to for ages."

"That's very funny" John said, "may I ask how you got that thing in here?"

"Why? It's not bothering anyone, is it? I parked it very neatly in the corner where it wouldn't get in the way."

"Excuse me, did you say _parked_? Like a car?" John poked Sherlock in the side with his elbow. "And are _you_ planning on contributing to this conversation anytime soon? You are the one who-"

"You are older than you look" Sherlock said slowly, not taking his eyes away from the man, "you... you travel a lot. _A lot_. You..." Sherlock started to circle the man, taking him all in, "You have been to places..." He shook his head. "Where have you _been_?"

 

The iritation on the stranger's face had given way to the faintest of smiles.

"Nice. Very impressive. Anything else?"

 

Sherlock looked him in the eyes, contemlating. Trying to make sense of what he saw.

"I mean", he finally said, his speech gathering speed, "there is the obvious, of course. You play the guitar. You're in a very complicated relationship with a woman you don't see quite as often as you'd like, or maybe that relationship has already ended, chances are you're not quite sure yourself, it's complicated. You haven't seen your granddaughter in a while, and while you have visited your childhood home quite recently, you were glad to leave again."

 

The stranger's face was unreadable now. Was that amusement? Shock? Outrage? He seemed _not quite_ as affected as people usually were. Or maybe he just hid it better. He put the sunglasses on and let his gaze wander over Sherlock. "And you're..." he said with a quizzing frown, "human. Huh."

"Careful", John said, "he might take that as an insult."

 

The man took the sunglasses off again and looked at John. "Your friend is very perceptive."

"Yeah, sorry, he... yeah" John agreed.

"So how did you get the box in here?" Sherlock said, still looking utterly confused, which John found rather unnerving to see.

"Why do you care about that?"

"BECAUSE it's odd." John realised a second to late he had gotten loud. "It's odd, and my friend over here won't leave it alone until you explain it."

 

"My...my box is odd?" The stranger sounded almost offended, but mostly astonished. He put his chips on top of a trash bin and raised himself to his full height. "Excuse me but she's just standing there and not bothering anyone. Odd. I'll give you odd. Have you looked outside recently? Now there's odd."

"What do you mean?", John asked.

"The weather?" The stranger pointed loosely behind him out to the streets, where the clouds still hung heavily in the sky.

 

"Well, it's very english, nothing weird about that."

 

The stranger gave John that same exasperated look Sherlock always gave him when he was about to explain to him how exactly the collar of a man's shirt could tell you why he was fired from his bank job, or why a half-empty glass of jam proved the innocence of a woman accused of her husbands murder. John felt a headache coming on.

"Follow me!" the stranger said as he walked out of the train station.

John wanted to shoot a look to Sherlock, but Sherlock had already dashed after the man.

John cought up with him in no time. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Is he... like... a case now?"

"Hmh. I guess he is."

"Because right now, I have to confess, I'm nothing but confused"

"I have to confess, I'm confused too."

"That's... ok, that makes it all kind of worth it. Why are _you_ confused?"

"I don't... he is... something about this man is... off."

"Off?"

"I can't pinpoint it, John. Something about him is so incredible off, I just know it, but I don't know _what_."

"You're in heaven right now, aren't you?"

"You know what, I just might be."

"Gentlemen", the stranger said as they reached the street, "will you please direct your eyes", he made a theatrical presenting gesture upwards, "towards the sky."

 

Sherlock and John looked up.

 

"Yes", John said, "clouds. We do get those here."

"Look closer" the stranger said.

John sighed and was about to tell him how silly this was when Sherlock, who hadn't taken his eyes of the clouds, blurted out "Oh my God!"

"See, he's seeing it" the stranger said pleased.

"He's always seeing things" John grumbled.

"John, you should really take a closer look at these... clouds" Sherlock said breathlessly.

 

He had to look for a whole minute. People shot them odd looks as they passed by, and John couldn't blame them. Two grown men just staring at the sky, while a third man just stood by and waited. What an odd sight they must give.

 

The vast mass of clouds, that had covered his life for days and days now, moved calmly but steadily along. It seemed somewhat closer now than it had a week ago. Suffocative. Oppressive.

And, as John kept observing the mass of clouds (it really was more like one single big cloud, for when it parted in places it came together again in others), he found that as long as you weren't looking for anomalies, it looked like a sky full of thunderclouds, but when you looked closer, the texture was all wrong.

 

Not like a cloud at all.

More solid, almost pudding-like, with an evenly grey tint and moist, no, not moist, oozy.

Cellular.

 

"What _the hell_ is that?" John all but stammered.

"To put it almost offendingly simple, it's a giant brain from space", the stranger said with a smile, "I really shouldn't sound so pleased, it's going to kill us all when it gets here. By the way, I'm the Doctor."

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

"My head hurts", John said.

They've had a whole series of very confusing conversations in the past hour; the one about the Doctor's refusing to identify himself as anything else but The Doctor; the one where Sherlock had explained to him what a consulting detective was and the Doctor had answered "That's... that's a private detective. You're a private detective. But fancy.", which Sherlock had been very miffed about; then there had been the discussion on the issue of _What do you mean a big brain from space is trying to kill us, how would you even know that?_ , and that had looped right back into _Who is this guy and what is he a doctor of?_

They were now sitting in a dimly lit cozy little greek restaurant, a shared plate of dolma on the table, of which the Doctor was the only one to take from. John was busy rubbing his temple, while Sherlock wouldn't take his eyes from the Doctor.

"Your headaches might be a result of the nearing, uhm, space brain. Some people get migraines when a storm is coming. This is much worse. I expect a lot of people will start to complain about similar symptoms very soon" the Doctor said and took another piece of dolma.

"You mean, when the giant space brain gets here." John's voice carried only a hint of sarcasm and he felt he deserved some appreciation for that.

"Well, as I've told you before", the Doctor said and set to make quotation marks in the air, " 'giant space brain' is a rather simple way of putting it-"

"Can we then please agree to never use that phrase again?" Sherlock asked. "Everytime one of you says 'giant space brain' I feel like I'm back in college on my first trip. It's a bit unnerving, you understand?"

 

The Doctor looked back and forth between John, whose face was a mixture of incredulity and amusement, and Sherlock, who stared right back with full attention.

"It's called the Fulminaton" he said finally, " generally everyone gives their best to avoid it, because getting in its way is highly unpleasant. It's a unique collective of organisms that gather together to one cluster-being that has travelled the universe for millions of years now. A mass of thought, heaving through space like a steam roller. The frankly speeking obscene amount of emission that it radiates would ruin an entire planet's atmosphere in hours."

"And it's heading towards earth, wonderful", John laughed joylessly. "Why do I not think that you're barking mad?"

The Doctor shrugged. "I don't know. You've seen the Fulminaton with your own eyes and latch on to anything that might deliver an explanation? Or you know what actual madness looks like from first-hand experience? Or maybe you just know people?"

 

Sherlock bent slightly over the table. "Satellites though."

The Doctor sighed. "Yes. Your weather and gps and what-else-you-might-have satellites will probably get their signals scrambled."

"No, I mean", Sherlock pulled his phone out and pointed to the top of his news feed, "why does the weather forecast tell us that it will stay cloudy throughout the week, and why isn't the number one headline that a gigantic alien organism is about to eradicate all life on earth? Why aren't the streets filled with panicky people bewailing the end of their existence?"

"I think we know why, Sherlock", John said, just as Sherlock's phone started to play, to John's shock and bewilderment, what he recognised as Morrissey's _Margaret on the Guillotine_.

 

"Speaking of Mycroft" Sherlock said and took the call. "Dearest brother of mine, I literally never had less time for you than in this moment, so be quick!"

"Mycroft?" the Doctor mouthed to John.

"His brother. He works for the government", John mouthed back.

"Ah", the Doctor mouthed.

 

"Whatever serial killer you are about to annoy into confessing, it has to wait", Mycroft said in his usual calm tone that didn't fool Sherlock for one second, "You are needed more urgently elsewhere."

"Yeah. No. Busy."

"Sherlock, you know how much I hate to use a cliché."

"But?"

A long sigh. "The fate of the world might depend on it."

Sherlock turned his mobile away from his ear to look full with triumph over to John and whisper "Guess what!"

John wasn't too impressed. "What does he need you for? He knows you are the least qualified person in the world to help with space-related problems."

 

Sherlock turned his phone back to his ear. "If this is about the thing in the sky that is most certainly not an oncoming storm front, might I suggest you consult a... a..."

"An astrobiologist" the Doctor said quietly.

"Yes, thank you. Mycroft, get an astrobiologist and stop bothering me."

"Don't be ridiculous, I have all the personell required right here. I need _you_ to come in and figure out its motivation."

"And why would I be able to help you with that? I can barely figure out what motivates people here on earth. Go ask Euros, she's the smart one."

"You know she doesn't talk!", Mycroft barked in a muffled tone the same moment John whispered "His crazy sister" to the Doctor.

"Sorry, Mycroft, I doubt I can help you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm having the most interesting time talking to a man who calls himself 'The Doctor' and lives in a Police Box. If the world is really coming to an end, I'd like to solve that riddle first." And with these words Sherlock hung up.

 

He was just about to put his mobile back in his pocket when _Margaret on the Guillotine_ started playing again.

"I should change his ringtone", Sherlock said, "there's a really nice canon by Mozart in b flat that would be perfect."

This time, Sherlock barely got out a sillable before Mycroft, in the most urgent tone, took charge of the conversation: "Did you just say 'police box'?"

Sherlock was a bit surprised by his brother's sudden change of subject. "Uhm, yes."

"Sherlock, what exactly did he tell you his name was?"

Ah. So things were slowly coming together. "He didn't give me a name, he literally calls himself just 'The Doctor'. I think he might be a bit nuts. No offense." The last words were directed to the Doctor himself, who just shrugged, nodded and said "It's fine, really."

On the other end of the line, Sherlock could hear his brother letting out a heavy breath and then an agitated "Is he with you right now?"

Whatever this was, Sherlock could feel it was getting _good_. Keeping his voice light, he threw back his head and said: "Oh yes. We are having lunch together."

"You're having... never mind. Sherlock, I need you to stay with him. DON'T talk to him. Don't look at him, don't go anywhere with him, don't... don't let him charm you into taking his hand and running into the sunset with him, no matter what happens!"

"... _excuse me_?"

"Just stay right where you are, I'll come picking you up! I'm serious Sherlock, it's of the upmost importance that you do as I say." And with that, Mycroft ended the call.

 

Eyes wide, Sherlock pocketed his phone and turned to the Doctor. "Why does my brother seem to think you're about to sweep me away on your motorcycle and marry me in a run down chapel in Las Vegas?"

"I really feel we are loosing sight of that whole end-of-the-world-thing", John said.

 

Fifteen minutes later they could hear the screeching of several government-issued cars and the unmistakable sound of dozens of military boots getting into position. 

"Popular, are you?" John asked the Doctor, his chin resting lazily in his hand.

Mycroft entered the restaurant in a steady pace. "Hello", John cried out when he saw the two heavily armed soldiers following him, "I don't think I recognize those uniforms!"

"They're U.N.I.T.", the Doctor said.

"What unit?" John asked.

"No, U.N.I.T. Unified Intelligence Taskforce"

"Right. Why have I never heard of them?"

"Because you weren't meant to.", Mycroft said as he stood in his full height at their table before he turned to the Doctor, who made a point of looking very uninterested, "and you are the Doctor, of course. Pleased to meet you."

Something in his demeanor let no doubt that Mycroft in fact wasn't pleased at all. John and Sherlock were both fascinated by this development.

The Doctor got up from the table. "We don't really have the time for extended niceties, do we?"

"No sir, I'm afraid not" Mycroft said with one of his thin smiles.

Sherlock started to laugh."Sir?"

"Not the time for explaining technicalities to you either, Sherlock" Mycroft said.

"Well then, let's go", the Doctor said as Sherlock and John got up from their chairs as well.

 

"Now, hold on!" the waitress who had been serving them hurried over to the group. "Who is going to pay the bill?"

"Mycroft, will you?" Sherlock said as he hurried after the Doctor, closely followed by the soldiers.

"My apologies", Mycroft said to the waitress, "but the tax-payer will not come up for my brother's snacking." and went out the door as well.

 

The waitress directed her scrutinising look towards John.

"This is sort of an international crisis" John said weakly.

"I'm sure it is. Card or cash?"

 


	3. This Planet of Idiots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an unforeseen turn of events, this chapter is not called "Brainstorming" because the author is a coward.

You never truly knew how roomy those sinister government-issued limousines actually were until you sat in one that was crammed with people.

 

Being the last one to squeeze into the car, John had taken his seat next to one of two U.N.I.T. soldiers with a "Shove over!" The man in the ominous black overall, geared up and his gun ready, peeked through the windshield of his helmet with an unspoken warning in his eyes.

 

Secret special unit or not, Captain John Watson was not impressed.

 

"At ease, soldier", he growled.

 

The man didn't ease up one bit, but he broke eye contact with John and sat upright in his seat, ready to go, like his colleague across from him.

 

From the other side of the back seat Sherlock had bent slightly over to see the spectacle play out and now considered John with a wide smirk full of pride and fondness.

 

John hadn't seen that expression in a while, not once since he had told Sherlock how he had cheated on his wife. He had tried not to read too much into that fact, but now John had to admit that he received his best friend's display of affection with a pang of relief.

Still, he tutted soundlessly and rolled his eyes at Sherlock as if to say "Oh, shut up" but he couldn't help but smile back.

 

Opposite Sherlock sat the Doctor, looking at him through his sunglasses with a deep frown.

 

"What are you doing?" John asked him, assuming the Doctor wore the sunglasses in a car with dimmed windows for strategic reasons. He had played enough poker in the cold of desert nights to know that some people liked to disguise their tells. He did not expect the answer to be "I'm reading your blogs".

 

"You... you have wi-fi...on your _sunglasses_?" John asked taken aback.

 

Sherlock's head snapped up so fast John swore he could hear a creak in his neck.

"Oooh, do you? Where can I get a pair?"

"No", John said.

"What do you mean, 'No'? This is the greatest-"

"I mean No, you're most definitely not getting sunglasses with internet access. You'd never get off Twitter again. I would loose you to the social network forever!"

 

"Is it really necessary right now to read Dr Watson's blog?" Mycroft asked. He sat next to the Doctor, rubbed his left temple and looked slightly tired.

 

"Oh, I've finished Dr Watson's blog a minute ago. Now I'm reading _thescienceofdeduction_."

"Aren't you a quick reader." John said drily.

"Faster than me", Sherlock added with admiration and only a hint of bitterness, "and how do you like my blog?"

"Quite enjoyable."

"It is?" Sherlock, John and Mycroft asked simultaeously, in varying pitches of disbelief.

"It's very niche. Haven't seen this kind of thing since the 19th century."

 

Sherlock and John would probably have dismissed this statement as a slip of tongue, hadn't Mycroft imediately started to cough pointedly.

 

"What, is this where we find out you're a vampire?" John asked only half joking.

 

"Sir", Mycroft barked out, "don't answer that!"

 

"Why not?" the Doctor snapped back, while Sherlock wiggled in his seat in an explosion of laughter, "I'm just to sit here and put up with these unfounded allegations?"

 

"They. Don't. Have security clearance." Mycroft snarled before turning to his brother, whose laughter had died down to a wheezing. "Oh, pull yourself together, Sherlock!"

 

"Well, technically", a voice John hadn't heard in a long time emerged between Sherlock and the U.N.I.T. soldier, "the Doctor is under no obligation to keep his identity a secret, since he never signed the confidentiality agreement."

 

"Anthea!" John cried out, "We haven't seen you in a while. How are you doing?"

"I'm busy."

She turned to the Doctor.

"We haven't met. Since of last year, I run Torchwood."

"I'm sorry to hear that", the Doctor shook her hand, "Which one?"

Her smile was cold but not without pride.

"All of them. They answer to me."

 

"Torchwood", Sherlock, still grinning, rolled the word over in his mouth and mind, ignoring Mycroft's wince at the blatant disregard of state secrets, "so you named some secret agency after the Torchwood estate, where Sir Robert MacLeish died under mysterious circumstances in 1879? _Do tell_."

 

"That stuff you know on the top of your head, but somehow you have no idea who Adele is."

 

"Hush, John, I'm thinking."

 

"There's not much to think about", the Doctor said. He took his sunglasses of and stored them in the inside pocked of his coat. His face was very grave."Sir Robert MacLeish was killed by a werewolf. End of story."

 

This was met with stunned silence. Mycroft had stopped rubbing his temple and was now burrying his face in his hand.

 

"Werewolf", Sherlock finally said, all expression in his face and voice left.

 

"Okay..." John felt it was his responsibility as the resident normal person to somehow find grounding in this conversation again. "But...no vampire."

 

"No, I'm a Time Lord."

 

"Time Lord" Sherlock repeated the word with a faint crack in his voice, and it was hard to tell wether he was angry or his hard drive had simply crashed.

 

"Yes, Time Lord. From the planet Gallifrey."

 

"He's an alien!", John yelped out, because, yes, of course, now it all made sense. Of course. Of course aliens were real, o _f course_ Mycroft Holmes would somehow be involved with them. How could it ever be otherwise?

 

The U.N.I.T. soldiers did their best not to seem involved, something Anthea had elevated to an art form years ago.

 

Sherlock blinked a few times and then raised an eyebrow. Maybe he was rebooting.

 

Mycroft had still not come up from behind his hand, breathing the words "...confidentiality agreement... " like a prayer of naive hope.

 

The Doctor leaned over to get a better look at Sherlock. "Are you okay?", he asked him.

"The... police box?" Sherlock managed.

"That's my space ship."

 

Sherlock nodded quietly, his lips pressed into a thin line. "It's just not fair, that's all", he said, "I was having a good time, and now you're from space, the box is from space, not to mention the whole Fulminaton situation, everything is from space all of a sudden. How was I ever supposed to solve that riddle? 'Alien with a space ship' would have never ever crossed my mind. Don't take this personally, but this is the second-biggest disappointment in my life so far."

 

The Doctor thought this over. "You're an odd one" he finally said and friendly patted Sherlock's knee.

"Oh, am I?"

"Yes, I think so. But then again, I might be the wrong person to ask."

"Because you're an alien."

"Hmh."

"From outer space."

"From Gallifrey."

"That's your planet."

"Yes."

Sherlock let out a big huff and turned his head.

 

"John, how do I make small talk with an alien?"

 

"Uh... I don't... I'm not sure this situation requires small talk, to be honest."

"Oh thank God." Sherlock turned back to the Doctor. "I'm not good with that sort of thing on the best of days."

"Well, neither am I" the Doctor said, and Sherlock let out a deep chuckle and said "Let's not then."

"Good idea. Let's judge each other in silence."

"Oh, I've already done that."

"Ah, yes, you did deduce me earlier. What's the verdict then?"

 

At the other end of the back seat John tried to get a better look at what was happening between Sherlock and the Doctor.

 

"You really want to know that?"

"Oh, should I get nervous?"

 

Sherlock had to laugh. "You've read John's blog, I don't tend to say nice things. Or do nice things, while we're at it. Are you sure you want to hear my thoughts on you?"

"Sure, I'm curious now."

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, looked the man in front of him over one last time, and said "Well, you're from space, and that's very annoying, for reasons I don't need to delve into right now, but apart from that... I...like you. I think."

 

One had to look very close to notice the change in the Doctor's face from mildly amused to mildly... interested? Skeptical?

 

"Do you", the Doctor said.

"Hmh. You seem like _so much_ trouble."

"And you're looking for trouble."

"Oh, always."

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

The control room, housed underground surprisingly close to Mycrofts own offices, looked sort of like someone had turned the War Room from _Dr Strangelove_ from the inside out. Sleek surfaces everywhere, visibly smart people sitting in long rows facing state-of-the-art technology, cold light coming from the ceilling.

 

Sherlock let himself fall back so he could talk to John in private.

 

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go home and spend some time with your daughter? If the world is really coming to an end-"  


"If I go home now and look Rosie in the eyes, I will not be able to keep it together. She will notice that something horrible is going on."

"John, I can't guarantee-"

"If the world is really coming to an end, I want her to just play with her friend and be a child and happy and having fun as long as possible."

Sherlock wasn't sure if he agreed with this, but if that meant John would spend the remaining time with him, who was he to argue?

"Besides", John added, "I'm sure we'll be fine."

Sherlock nodded eagerly. "Of course. Why wouldn't we?"

"Nothing to worry about."

"Worst case scenario..."

"We'll get to that bridge when it's actually about to burn down."

 

The Doctor, who had been busy reading data over the shoulder of a nervous but promising young expert of some sort, retreated to the empty space in the middle of the room, eyeing the big screen affixed to the north wall that showed a detailed schematic of the Fulminaton heading towards Earth.

 

"You people want to know what's unusual?" he said to nobody specific.

 

John's eyes widened. "Do you really want an answer to that?"

 

The Doctor ignored this. "Here's a fun fact about the gooey cloud of death approaching us: It likes to get about in it's own pace. It has been observed to move in a leisurely manner, wide turns, few course corrections, mostly taking the path of least resistance. Any casualties have been incidental. A whale knocking stuff over, if you like."

The Doctor walked up to the big screen, put his two index fingers to the opposite ends of it, and drew them together in one swift motion. The schematic zoomed out to show the Fulminaton's flight course in the solar system in a dotted line.

He turned back around and waved back at the screen. "Knowing that, what stands out, Doctor Watson?"

 

John hadn't expected to get called up like a student in class. "Oh, uhm..."

He studied the screen. "It has taken quite a sharp turn after brushing the main asteroid belt. And it has taken up immensely on speed as well."

 

"It took the thing thirty years to arrive here", Mycroft chimed in, "we thought it would come nowhere near us, but then, a couple of weeks ago, its flight became...", he pressed the next word out with a sour expression on his face, "...wobbly. It just rolled on its side and changed course again, right towards Earth. It took us completely by surprise."

 

"This change in behaviour indicates hostile intentions", Anthea said. "Most likely of an exploitative nature."

The Doctor considered this. "It's not known to eat planets. It's not known to eat anything really."

"And planets are not really known to be brimming with life like Earth is", Anthea not exactly snapped, but there was a lot of audible iritation, "maybe we're a rare delicacy worth offending the diet. It is coming here for a specific reason. What else could it be?"

 

Sherlock pulled a face.

Mycroft noticed. "You don't agree, brother dear?"

 

"I just think..." Sherlock broke off, looking for the right words. He shook his head. He glanced at the Doctor. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong-"

"I was planning to." the Doctor said, which earned him a fleeting grin from Sherlock and astonished expressions from everyone in the room who wasn't busy reading from a screen.

 

"I do realise I'm outside my field of chosen subject here" Sherlock went on, "but, come on, it's... it's _alien_. And you're standing here thinking so utterly...human. How _boring_. I mean, come on!"

"So what do you think?" the Doctor asked.

"I think... I don't know!" Sherlock threw his arms in the air, but he was visibly in high spirits. "There is not enough data to work with! I can't just assume things, you're expecting me to-", he waved with his hands about in an erratic manner, "-to make... bricks... without any clay!"

 

"Well, Doctor, to bad we can't just jump into that space ship of yours, fly over, and ask what it wants" John said bitterly.

Sherlock was about to agree, but then gasped mid-thought. "Oooh, Doctor, is that an option?"

A quiet smile spread on the Doctor's face. "It would be very risky, and it wouldn't help much, I'm afraid. But, why don't you try to see how far you can get with what you have, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock let out a puff of breath out of his nose and stared at the screen with the schematic. The Doctor stepped closer to him.

 

"Well then, Sherlock, what do you observe?"

 

Sherlock turned his head to stare into a pair of very old, very bright eyes. He frowned.

 

"Are you testing me?"

 

The Doctor shrugged with a tender grin.

 

The _nerve_ of that man. How dare this, this... _guy_ , or whatever he was, he was Sherlock Holmes, he was...

 

...collecting his thoughts...

 

...taking in the screen in front of him, the dotted line, barely touching the badly animated stones hovering across the wide area between what Sherlock didn't know as Jupiter and Mars...

 

...barely...

 

... too close.

 

The Fulminaton had been forced to change course, because it had made an error. It had to come here. And then, weeks ago, it had been confused for a moment. Corrected course again.

 

"It's looking for something!" Sherlock clasped his hands together with an energy he hadn't felt in ages. He whirled around to face a group of bewildered faces, and whirled back around again to talk to the Doctor. "You said it was a collective of organisms? I think it came too close to one of those... stoney things and one of the organisms got separated, lost its way entirely and came here. The Fulminaton has followed its trace. I think it wants to reunite!"

Sherlock's face flushed with pride. "This is a family issue!"

 

The Doctor didn't say anything. Just looked at him with warmth. Looked straight _trough_ him with that warmth. As if he saw an old friend standing right where Sherlock took up space.

 

Sherlock's face fell. Obviously he had lost the Doctor's attention.

"No?", he asked, a bit more subdued. "Am I wrong?"

The Doctor shook his head. "Don't worry, you did very well."

"I'm not worried", Sherlock muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.

 

"Assuming you are right", Anthea said, "all we have to do is find the object in question-"

"Subject", the Doctor and Sherlock said simutaneously.

Anthea barely batted an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"We have to treat it like an acting party." Sherlock said, glancing at the Doctor, who nodded again. "If it has any sort of intelligence, like the Doctor implied, we have to include the possibility that this organism is taking actions of its own, for survival, for... entertainment."

 

Mycroft looked up incredulously. "Entertainment?"

Sherlock stepped closer to the big screen and pointed vaguely to Earth. "You get stranded on this planet of idiots, you get bored. Look at me, Mycroft. Most of the time I'm busy not going mad with boredom, and I'm from here. What must it be like for a being that used to travel through infinite space with billions of its kind to get stuck here alone?"

 

Understanding dawned on Mycroft's face.

  


"So what's the plan?" John asked. "We find the thing, and then?"

"You said it earlier, John", Mycroft said, "The Doctor has... means of transportation."

"You just don't want to take the word 'space ship' in your mouth, do you?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, do shut up, thank you."

  


John turned to the Doctor. "You said you can't fly up to it."

"No, I said it wouldn't be worth the risk because communication is unlikely. But I can give someone a lift."

 

Anthea adressed the nervous but promising young expert who had brought the Doctor up to speed earlier: "Can we calculate where exactly the Fulminaton is headed?"

 

"Norway, Mum", the answer came, but the Doctor shook his head and bent over the young man to show him something on his laptop.

"The center of navigation is assumed to be around here, that would make the movements-"

"Ah, I see!", the expert said brightly.

"Do you see where this bit is bowing down?"

"Yeah, oh yeah!" The expert typed eagerly for a few moment, and turned to the big screen on the north wall.

"Assumed destination."

The screen zoomed back in to earth, zoomed in on the Faroe Islands, the Scottish coast, and finally hovered over one single island that John had hoped he would never have to deal with again.  


A gasp escaped him. "Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock was busy exchanging glances with his brother. "Mycroft!"

 

"Yes, I know. I'm not blind"

 


	4. The Concept of Weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like that bit in The Avengers where the Avengers mock each others' premises. There's even a crazy person in a transparent prison.

When angry, John had the habit of staring down the person he regarded the most at fault for his mood, and one never quite knew if he would actually go off or not.

 

John was _scary_ when he was like that.

But apparently he couldn't fault anyone specific this time, so he just stared ahead, sitting straight as a candle in his chair in a conference room inside Sherrinford, where they were waiting to have a word with the new medical director of the facility, focusing on some point next to Mycroft's ear. Mycroft, sitting across from him, slowly began to notice and started to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Sherlock leaned over to John. "I always visit Eurus on Tuesdays", he said quietly for none else to hear, trying to cheer him up.

"So?" John asked, only listening with half an ear.

"It's a Saturday." Sherlock tilted his head for a second, as if slightly embarrassed. "Feels a bit weird, to be here now."

"Sherlock, you might not have noticed, but the scale used to meassure the concept of Weird is kind of broken now."

Sherlock eyed him carefully, and decided to leave it at that.

Mycroft on the other hand decided he had enough. "John, are you alright?", he finally asked.

"Yeah. Sure. Why not?", John said, a bit too curtly.

"You seem tense."

"Oh I'm fine. I just... really, really, hate this place, is all."

  


"What is this place anyway", the Doctor asked, standing at the head of the table and looking vaguely displeased. "Is it a prison or an asylum? Is it both? Is this Arkham Asylum?" He turned to Sherlock. "Are you secretly the Batman? Is Batman based on your life?"

Sherlock, having lost the thread, blinked confused. "I, uh, no, batman? What?" He looked to John for an explanation only to find him rubbing his forehead again and saying: "I know, right? It's mad. What are we here for anyways? I mean, do we know what exactly we're looking for?"

  


Anthea took a deep breath. "Here is a working hypothesis: when the organism we are looking for landed here, it slipped under our radar. It was too small for our technology back then to pick up. But this is a small island with barely any vegetation. The Staff back then would have noticed an impact crater. It landed somewhere else and came in later.

"Staff or inmate?" Sherlock asked.

"Probability overwhelmingly points to one of the patients" Mycroft sneered, " _quite_ clearly."

  


"Really, brother dear? Is that a discussion you want to open all over again?"

  


"Hang on now, just a minute", John raised a hand in a pacifying manner as Mycroft started to turn ever so slightly red, "are you saying the thing runs around in human form?"

"Yes", Sherlock faced him annoyed, "that's what we have been talking about the entire time. Have you not been listening?"

"I have been listening. You didn't say anything about it being a bloody shapeshifter-"

"It's been implied, John, if you had followed our train of thought-"

"Oh here we go again, it's all so obvious to you-"

"Nobody has said anything about a shapeshifter either, that's the stuff of bedtime stories and outdated superstitions, try to keep some footing in reality!"

"Bedtime stories... Sherlock, we're here with an _alien_ looking for _another_ alien."

"And what's your point? Lot's of little green men in Grimm's Fairytales, are there, John?

  


"Will you guys _shut it_?" the Doctor let out, "Are you two always like this?"

  


"Oh you have no idea", Anthea fell in, "I could show you transcripts..."

John raised his hand again, this time in defeat. "AL-RIGHT, if it's not a shapeshifter, what-"

"I'm thinking symbiotic relationship" the Doctor said.

"You mean parasitic", John corrected him.

"No, I mean symbiotic. A parasite does something to you you don't want to happen. You'd ask your GP what's wrong with you. Your GP would check you up and say 'You have a parasite in you that we have never seen before.' There'd be articles in medical journals, baffled reports on the news, clickbait articles, the whole thing."

Mycroft's brows furrowed. "Are you saying someone infected themselves on their own volition?"

"Basically", Sherlock said, "we are looking for someone who met an unknown organism and went 'Oh, new friend, buckle up, this is going to be fun.' And seeing as where we have tracked it down, fun they had."

"Sherlock..." John started.

"What, I didn't say it was fun for anyone else."

  


When Doctor Stawski finally entered, the vibe in the room was ripe with annoyance from all sides. With her usual brilliant smile, she introduced herself as the new medical director of Sherrinford to everyone who didn't know her yet, which was everyone except the Holmes brothers.

Sherlock had during his visits pinned her down as an exemplary student turned leading expert on her field, prone to stress-eating in a new environment, a habit clear enough for him to observe over the past month as her clothes went from fitting to just a little bit too tight back to almost fitting again. Altogether a brightly smiling woman in her mid thirties who knew what she was doing but still felt the need to prove herself. Very nice. Very open. Very likable.

"Stawski! That's a lovely Name." The Doctor shook her hand and grinned from one ear to the other.

Anthea contented herself with a curt but honest smile. "Doctor Stawski, we will get to the point. Do you have any patients you would deem...", she searched for a fitting word, "...unusual? Even for this place, I mean."

  


A frown buried itself on Stawski's face, but she didn't stop smiling. "I'm afraid I'm not quite sure what you mean. We have a wide range of people here."

  


"She means", said the Doctor, "any inexplicable incidents."

"Inexplicable?"

  


"Something you wouldn't want to put down in a official report, because you'd sound silly", Sherlock said.

  


"Something you think scientifically... unlikely", Mycroft said.

  


"Something the staff only talks about during coffee break in hushed voices", John said.

  


Stawski looked from one person to the other, her smile seeming to become heavier with every second.

  


"You do have such a case, don't you?" Anthea encouraged her.

"...Yes we do", she admitted.

  


"Well then?" Mycroft was visibly getting impatient. He was used to having all relevant information handed out to him in a file ready to process, and it was obvious he didn't like it very much when Sherlock told him, very quietly, "Mycroft, shush."

"Excuse me?"

"Just...for a second, yes?" Sherlock put his nice-man-face on and turned to Doctor Stawski. "It's alright. Best you tell right from the beginning."

  


"Oh...well..." Doctor Stawski looked helplessly back and forth between the Holmes brothers.

  


"So what happened to the old one?"

The non-sequitur made everyone stare at the Doctor, who leaned on the expensive upholstered office chair.

  


"Excuse me?" Doctor Stawski asked finally.

"You said you're the _new_ director of Sherrinford. What happened to the _old_ one?"

Doctor Stawski stared at him.

  


Awkward silence spread through the room like spilled coffee as things clicked into place.

  


"Oh for Christ's sake!" John said.

  


_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

"I've gone over all the records", Doctor Stawski said meekly, "went through all the research, but I have no explanation how Euros Holmes could brainwash the entire facility. She might be a unique mind, but the things she said... it was teenage poetry at best. By all accounts, there was nothing said by her that should bend a schooled psychiatrist to her will. It's inexplicable. I don't know how she was able to pull it off."

She clasped her hands together to signal that she had reached the end of both her observations and her wisdom.

A heavy pause settled amongst the others.

  


"Well then", the Doctor said, getting up and startling everyone else "let's go see her."

  


"You think it's her?", Mycroft said with a frown. "This is barely any proof. Sir, be reasonable."

The Doctor faced Mycroft with a scowl. "You knew", he said. "You knew what she was capable of, you knew she shouldn't be able to do these things and yet you never questioned it!"

Mycroft, bless him, rose uo up to his full height and gave his own scowl right back. "My sister has always been remarkable!"

"Oh, I don't doubt that for a second. But this, the brainwashing, the pulling people in, that came later, didn't it?" Mycrofts' scowl faltered, but the Doctor was relentless. "You saw her change, and it didn't make sense, but you accepted it. Shrugged it off as just another display of 'The Holmes Intellect'. Just more proof of how you are superior to everyone else."

Mycroft paled, and so did Sherlock, albeit for different reasons. Sherlock had never heard anyone talk like that to his brother. Sometimes, when very angry, their mother would scrutinize him for not doing well _enough_ , but no one had ever attacked Mycroft on the ground of... what exactly? Was it the snobbery that ticked the Doctor of? Was it the miscalculation on Mycrofts' part? Somehow, Sherlock had the distant feeling that it had something to do with public schools and ideologies and history and being english and for some reason the concept of... cleanliness, but he couldn't put it into words, couldn't connect the dots, he only knew that something here was implied that made him deeply uncomfortable at the core of his being. He didn't quite know where to stand here.

"Mycroft", he said gently, in an attempt to find some order, "Let's go see Euros. It will clear things up."

Mycroft visibly fought with himself. "And what if it is true? Sherlock? Then what?"

Sherlock didn't have the answer to that yet, so he stuck with what he knew best.

"This is detective work, Mycroft. This is why you called me. We have found a lead. Now we have to follow the path to truth. There is no place for sentiment here."

  


_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

It was supposed to be just Mycroft and the Doctor, but Sherlock was the only one who was somewhat able to communicate with his sister these days, so he was a necessity, and John, who still vividly remembered how things went the last time he was here, insisted on coming because "I don't trust any of you nutters to notice a missing glass barrier, to be honest."

  


When the four men entered the room that held Euros' cell, she stood with her back turned, playing the violin. One of her own compositions, Sherlock recognised, that sounded like Liszts _Liebestraum_ wrapped around a knife.

Brilliant, beautiful, but unnerving to listen to.

It was a short piece, and her visitors waited for her to finish. The Doctor, having never heard any of her music, gaped at her in amazement. John was less enchanted. He grabbed Sherlock by the arm to pull him down to a height that made whispering possible.

"I might not understand a lot about music", he breathed barely audible, "and she might be an absolute genius, but I prefer your playing any day."

Sherlock threw him a disbelieving grin.

"No, I do!", John insisted. "Her playing is an acid trip. Yours is... a solace."

  


Euros stopped playing.

"Everyone is a critic, I suppose", she said, let violin and bow dangle from her arms and turned around to take a look at her visitors, who froze in astonishment.

  


"I was told you didn't talk", the Doctor said.

  


"Four men come to see me, it's safe to assume you want something, and it will be interesting enough for me to reconsider my vow of silence. Why else would you bother at this point?" Euros looked the Doctor up and down. Smiled faintly. Recked her chin. "You didn't tell me we have made contact with extraterrestials, Mycroft", she finally said without averting her eyes from the Doctor. "Quite an oversight."

  


"I understand that you have been in contact yourself for quite a while", Mycroft said, keeping his voice even, "so it's not as if you have missed out."

  


Euros, perhaps for the first time in her life, stood there, _taken aback_.

"Ah", she said eventually, in that typical awkward holmesian what-is-eye-contact way that came out whenever one of the siblings found themselves in a situation of pure social terribleness without means of escape. Shuffling of feet and all. "You found out about Flake."

"Flake?" Mycroft frowned.

"It was just a little flake. So that's what I called it."

  


"How did you meet?", the Doctor asked.

"They had a garden at the place they put me in after home burned down."

"You mean..." prompted Mycroft.

  


Eurus tutted. "After _I_ burned home down. God, you're so pedantic", she sighed and rolled her eyes in the most dramatic manner before she continued her story.

"We met."

She let her bow clutter to the floor.

"We went along."

She stretched out an arm, grasping something from her memory, with a look of innocence on her face that made it easy to imagine her as a young girl on that day in the garden.

"I was so alone, you know? And then we weren't. At least for a while."

She draw her hand back quickly and put her fingers in her mouth.

  


"Y-you...", John stuttered in disbelief, "you _ate_ it?"

  


Euros seemed to snap out of her memory. She pulled her fingers out again and tapped lightly against the glass at John's direction. "Judgy little man", she said, "why don't mind your own business for once?"

John's eyebrows went remarkably high.

  


"And then?", the Doctor prompted her to go on.

  


Euros lost her focus again. "And then we were one. And thus alone once more."

  


The men stared at her.

  


"... I don't understand." Mycroft said.

"Mark the day", Euros and Sherlock said simultaneously, and John couldn't help but snort.

  


"You... fused?" the Doctor asked. "You and Flake, you became one person?"

  


"I absorbed them", Euros corrected. "I'm me. But everything Flake was, I am now too."

She finally turned to her eldest brother. "How did you find out? It took you long enough."

  


Mycroft was angry. He was, quite honestly, sick of this family sometimes. There he was, trying to keep his siblings safe, and then they went of to do things like that. Burnt houses down, developed drug addictions, killed people in cold blood, fused with alien life forms... It was easier hearding a bag full of fleas than to watch over these people.

"It seems", he sneered, "your companion has a rather large entourage, that has finally come to pick it up. To our all demise." He turned to the Doctor. "And how do we fix this?", he asked furiously.

The Doctor looked him over coldy. "We have a plan. Stick to that."

Mycroft stared at him.

"You can't be serious."

"Why not? We found who we were looking for. Let's do what we came here to do."

  


Sherlock uneasiness grew. "There's got to be another way", he said, "we can't sent her up there. It could very well kill her."

"We don't know that for sure. She absorbed Flake as a child. Perfect circumstances for a built-up imunity I'd say."

Mycroft got angry. _Really_ angry.

"Sir, with all due respect, but I will not gamble with my sister's life for a theory!"

"How about for the rest of the world then?"

"You can't just...", Sherlock swallowed hard when he found he was outraged. "You can't decide to send someone you just met away to die! What kind of doctor does that?"

  


"No doctor. A soldier does though."

All eyes turned on John, who grinned coldy, because Damn, now, for the first time today, he understood.

"You've been a soldier, haven't you? You've been to war. You've sent people to their deaths before."

The Doctor smiled sadly. "Yes. Yes, I was. And I have."

  


"That doesn't change a thing." Mycroft set his jaw. "I won't let you take her."

"Neither of us will", Sherlock agreed.

"What do you care about her so much anyway?" the Doctor asked. "One person in exchange for the world. Not an unfair bargain!"

"She's our sister!", Sherlock said.

"I'm surprised. Look at you, being sentimental. It's irational." the Doctor stated.

Sherlock stepped back and eyed the Doctor as if he saw him for the first time. Then it was his turn to sneer:

"You think you know me because you've read Johns' blog? You know nothing of me."

  


He retreated back to where he had come from, positioning himself next to John, who witnessed Sherlocks' outburst with pure astonishment.

"You're actually pissed of right now, aren't you?" he asked, and Sherlock blinked surprised. "Huh", he said, "I guess so, yes."

He slowly breathed out of his nose and tried to calm down before he talked to the Doctor again: "You don't know what is important to me, or to my brother, or anyone here. But know this: whatever your scheme might be, you stay off anyone who is tied to me. You, _Doctor_ , are cold-hearted and cruel and if you don't understand why I'm not going to let this happen then you can sod off!"

The Doctor looked... satisfied, with that faint smile again as if to say 'Gotcha', but before Sherlock could work out what that meant, a blunt and mighty crash drew everyones' attention into Euros' cell, where she stood in the midst of splattered wood, the neck of what once was a violin in her hand, and she was _not happy_.

  


"This concerns me", she said, "and I will have a say in this."

"Of course", the Doctor said, "I apologize."

"What is your plan, alien man?"

"I have a ship and-"

"- A spaceship? And you're going to take me up there?"

"Yes."

  


"Euros, we don't know what will happen to you out there" Mycroft said.

"And what prospects do I have in here, brother? Stuck in my cell forever? Waiting for you to bring me puzzles to solve? Getting rewarded with scraps? Playing the violin with someone who hardly can keep up? No offense Sherlock, I know you're trying. But if my options are this and _launching me up to the sky_ , what do you think I'm going to choose, you clever men?"

  


She was met with silence.

  


Finally Sherlock said meekly: "I thought you enjoyed our violin playing."

  


"Sherlock please. I am everything and I have nothing. Help me!"

  


Sherlock looked his sister in the eyes and felt sad. Just sad.

Apart from the pain she had caused him, he had barely any memory of her, but he had hoped that there was a connection to be found. He had come here once a week for months and months to try to help her the only way he knew he could, he had invested all this time and music and, yes, sentiment in the hopes he could make things better, but in the end, it seemed he was barely able to provide more than distraction.

  


"Euros-", Mycroft started.

  


"I'll come with you to see you off", Sherlock said. "I'll accompany you as far as I can. If you let me. "

"That is agreeable", Euros said.

  


"Have the two of you lost your mind?", Mycroft cried out, and Sherlock could hear the betrayal in his voice. He turned to his brother.

"Mycroft. She _wants_ this. Let's have her back on this one."

Mycroft scowled, but his face was already softening from angry to stern.

"Our parents are going to be very upset about this", he said, "I expect you to be there when I explain to them why visiting their daughter will no longer be possible."

 


	5. Some of Us Are Content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by "Fix-It" I mean "Launch all the problems into space, it will be fine".

"Anthea has ordered for the TARDIS to be brought here", the Doctor said.

  


"TARDIS?" Sherlock asked.

  


"It's what my ship is called", the Doctor explained.

  


Sherlock let his eyes wander along the coast line. Once you knew the Fulminaton for what it was, you couldn't unsee it, and here, with the horizon in full view, there was no ignoring the strange spectacle.

Afternoon was now about to take it's leave and make space for an early evening, and where the sky met the sea, a weird visual effect made it look as if the atmosphere was about to melt like candle wax, spilling a sense of doom all over the shore.

  


"Doctor", he said, haltingly, because he'd been thinking about this for a while now, and if he was wrong, he'd look like a fool, "back there, with Euros, you weren't really..."

"Not against her will, no", the Doctor said. "I'm sure I would have come up with something at the nick of time. I do admit, though, her descision makes things a lot easier."

"You came across a bit like a...", he made a certain hand gesture and shot him an sheepish look of apologies. Luckily, the Doctor didn't seem offended.

"I just hope your sister doesn't think very ill of me now. In hindsight, I was talking over her head to you. I was ruder than originally intended. It happens."

  


Sherlock was now sure he was right with what he suspected and pushed onward.

"That was a test, wasn't it?", he asked. "You were testing _me_."

"Possible."

"Right", Sherlock nodded, "please don't do that again."

  


They watched a helicopter landing further down the shore, the TARDIS hanging securely strapped down from it.

"There is your space ship", Sherlock said, with a hint of amusement. The Doctor grunted in reply.

  


Sherlock had traveled a lot when he had been dismanteling Moriarty's web, of course, and he occasionally had to go abroad for cases. And the summer before he had started university, he had made his way through most of South America. So he considered himself an experienced traveller.

He was good at leaving, was the point.

But apparently, no matter what John thought about his brilliance and dramatics, there was always someone who was capable of upstaging him.

  


"How far can you go in that?", he asked, genuinely curious.

"I can go anywhere with the TARDIS", the Doctor replied.

"Yes, I get that, but how far exactly?"

The Doctor looked at him.

"I can go anywhere", he said slowly. "Anywhere and anytime."

  


Sherlock paused.

  


"Are you telling me you can travel in time with it as well?"

"Yes."

It took Sherlock a moment to digest that.

"...and here I thought you were just incredibly old."

"Oh, I am very much older than you think. You wouldn't believe it, but I'm actually older than you."

  


At that Sherlock was actually lost for words.

  


_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

They had choosen a good landing spot for the TARDIS, not far from Sherrinfords' main entrance, but hidden from windows and without a clear view to the sea.

  


Anthea and John were already there, one overlooking the delivery of the TARDIS, the other looking out for Sherlock and the Doctor returning from their stroll.

  


"I see you two have reconciled from your little tiff back there" John said as they stepped nearer.

  


Sherlock smiled an awkward smile. "Well it appears he isn't quite the ruthless calculating bastard he led me to believe he was, so it's all good for now."

  


John shook his head with a chuckle. "You know, this-" and he gestured towards Sherlock, the Doctor, and the space between them, "is really bizarre to witness. Especially if you're me."

  


Sherlock didn't understand and was just about to say so, when Mycroft and Euros came walking down from the large building.

  


Euros had been given a plain grey ensemble of trousers, shirt and a light jacket, and white sneakers that would not withstand a lot of weather, but, considering where she would go, it was obvious nobody thought she would have need for that sort of thing for very long.

  


"All ready and set", Anthea told her former boss. He nodded.

  


"Mycroft", Sherlock said, "come with us. Let's see our sister off together."

  


"Oh", Mycroft declined with a wave of his hand, as if he was saying _Oh no thanks, no more tea for me._ "I will say my Goodbyes right here, if you don't mind.

  


Euros picked a single stray dandelion seed from Mycrofts' custom-tailored dark navy linen suit jacket.

"He won't come", she said, "for the same reason he stays in his office as much as possible. Crunching numbers. Controlling everything through monitors and files and making sure the world he lives in keeps being the same one he was born into. Some of us are content, if you can believe that."

  


"Euros", Mycroft said quietly and, in an uncharacteristic fit of emotionality, carefully cupped her elbow, "all I ever did was keeping you safe. You and Sherlock. I do hope you see that."

  


"It's the only thing I ever got to see." She looked him in the face. "You never angered me. You just bored me sometimes."

  


And with that, she turned and made her way towards the TARDIS. The Doctor watched her go perplexed, shrugged, and followed her.

  


"You will be alright?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded. "That is just her way.", he said. "Go. And do be careful, if you can help it."

  


Sherlock didn't know what else to say to his brother. But there was one thing to be done before he threw himself into this particular adventure.

  


"John", he said, pulling his friend aside, "do me a favour and take Mycroft to a pub tonight, alright? I don't want him brooding in his big sad kitchen after today."

"Yeah, I can do that", John said. "Don't worry, I'll drag him to the loudest place I know. He'll hate it. There might even be a brawl."

Sherlock couldn't hide his smile. "Perfect. You get me, John."

  


John chuckled and mustered the blue box that had started this madness. "So you're sure you wanna do this?" he asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"John", he said, voice lowered, and something about that made the shorter man look up to him.

"There is a plan, right?", John realized. "Something is up."

They locked eyes.

"John, a unique opportunity has presented itself."

"Okay...", John said, "...what is it? Do you need me to do something, or..."

"John", Sherlock said again, so quietly, John had to strain his ears, "it's a time machine."

  


John's eyes went wide.

"Alright", he said.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Don't step on any butterflies, okay?"

Sherlock looked so confused it made John almost laugh.

"Butterflies?"

"It's... it's an old story. Man travels back in time, steps on a butterfly, when he returns to his own time the earth is ruled by dinosaurs."

Sherlock thought about this.

"So... you're telling me to consider the causality of my deeds?"

"Yes please."

"Alright, I'll keep that in mind."

And he went to join his sister and the Doctor.

  


Euros pointed to the TARDIS. "This is a spaceship", she stated.

"Yes", Sherlock said, indulging her rarely displayed sense of wonder, "and a time machine. All phantastic things in one." Sherlock jutted his chin towards the Doctor, who was fishing in his trouser pockets for the key. "He calls it a TARDIS."

"I assume it looks like... this, because of a broken camouflage mechanism?"

"Yes", said the Doctor, as he pulled out the key and put it in its lock.

"It's tiny."

"You think so? I'm sure we'll all fit in if we squeeze a bit." And with a knowing smirk, the Doctor opened the door and stepped aside to let the siblings in.

  


Sherlock wasn't sure what he had expected but whatever it was, this was not it.

"No." he said. "That is... no."

  


The Doctor was about to say something, but Sherlock held up a finger.

  


"Just..." he said, turned, left straight out the door again, leaving Euros and the Doctor behind.

  


"Forgot something?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock emerged back.

"Shut up", Sherlock said and eyed the TARDIS with a punishing scowl. Circled it.

"This again?" John asked exasperated. "Sherlock, what is it now?"

Sherlock ignored him and knocked carefully against one of the blue walls. "No. No way. This is really pushing it." He shook his head, went back inside and closed the door.

  


The Doctor smirked at him patiently, standing at the big console in the middle of the large, large room they stood in.

  


Sherlock took a deep breath.

  


"I hate this", he said.

  


"Why?" Euros had barely moved an eyebrow since she had entered the ship. "It makes perfect sense." She turned to the Doctor. "I get it now. TARDIS indeed."

"Huh?" Sherlock said briliantly, feeling like smoke was about to exit his ears any second.

"Time And Relative Dimension In Space", Euros explained.

  


Sherlock could have smacked himself in the face. "Oh is that what it means? I thought it was just some alien word."

"Obviously it's not. Try to keep up, Sherlock." She tilted her head and gave him a good look-over. "People think you're a genius? How did you pull that of?"

  


"Doctor", Sherlock said, a little bit louder than necessary, "I do believe the clock is ticking?"

  


The Doctor started hitting buttons, pulling levers, the machinery let out screeching noises and Sherlock felt like an elevator was taking off, but worse. He was dizzy, and overwhelmed, and all around he felt like a chicken in ballet class.

  


A thought came him. "Euros", he said quietly, and she turned her attention to him, "could you, uhm, check...?"

"What?", she asked.

He lowered his voice even further. "Am I high right now?"

She looked into his eyes. Observed his pupils.

"No." She said decidedly.

He nodded and surrendered to the circumstances.

  


A heavy tremble went through the TARDIS that Sherlock could feel in his bones, and as he and Euros gripped the railing for support he wondered just how stable this angrily screeching little box really was.

  


"I'm flying us as near as possible!" the Doctor yelled trough the noise, "But we really need to hurry, or this could end badly. Holding position under these circumstances is-" Sherlock couldn't hear the rest, because a growling filled his ears that seemed to come from the TARDIS' deepest core, wherever that was.

  


Euros scrambled back to the doors and opened them wide.

Bright flickering light flooded the room, and Sherlock had to blink a couple of times before he got used to it. His sister stood still at the treshhold, her hair blowing in the wind, her face mesmerized in a way he had never seen before.

  


He slowly followed her and peeked out the door over her shoulder.

  


He had never seen anything like it.

  


Up close, the Fulminaton was a landscape of greyish, mucoid mass. There was lightning, and dull thunder and Sherlock was hit with a strong wind that smelled lightly of ozone.

A sudden wave of anxiety poured over him as he realized the strangeness, the other-worldlyness of the situation they were in. The ship he stood in, the awe-inspiring natural phenomenon in front of him.

He was a man of science, and he should have been in his element, for what is science than someone pointing at a thing and going "What the hell is that?" but it was just so much of it all and he didn't know where to look first. He gently clasped Euros' wrist, to be protective or out of a need for comfort he couldn't entirely say.

  


Euros meanwhile viewed the spectacle wide-eyed and nodded to herself. Then, she looked one last time at her brother.

  


"You can't come with me."

  


"No", Sherlock agreed, "I can't."

  


She turned back to the alien sight in front of them.

  


"Sister dear", he whispered, trying to keep the tone light, "are you quite sure about this?"

  


Euros didn't look back at him anymore. "I'm more than sure. I'm _intrigued_."

  


And, slipping out of Sherlock's grip, she stepped out.

  


He could see her, a blur of black hair and grey fabric, spreading out arms and legs as if to fully embrace her destination. He tried to keep his eyes on her as long as possible despite the bright lightning and the strong wind, but soon reactionary tears made his sight blurry.

  


Then there was a blast that Sherlock hadn't expected, and he was knocked flat on his back. By the time he had gathered himself halfway back up, the doors had closed again.

  


The Doctor still leaned heavily on the console, steering away with a look on his face as if he was pushing a car with his bare hands.

The noise slowly faded away, leaving an eerie calmness behind.

  


"Is she alive?" Sherlock asked faintly.

The Doctor looked intently at the screen that was hanging at eye level. "The Fulminaton is changing course again. It seems she got the message across."

"But is she alright?"

"We should take off too, I don't want to get swept up in its pull."

He pushed buttons, and Sherlock felt a weight in his stomach turning.

"Doctor! Is my sister alright?"

  


The Doctor hesitated.

  


"You don't know, do you?"

"There's too much interference for my sensors. I'm sorry. I can't tell."

"You said the built up imunity-"

"- You know it's only a theory, Sherlock. And Euros, she knew it too. We can't know for sure."

  


Sherlock realized he was staring with his mouth agape. He closed it. Tried not to think about the very real possibility that he just aided his little sister on her way to death.

  


The Doctor pulled up a lever, and Sherlock could feel the TARDIS coming to a still. The dizziness faded a bit.

  


"Do you regret your choice?" the Doctor asked him. Sherlock shook his head.

"It wasn't my choice", he said, "It was hers. I don't regret supporting her." He hurried back to his feet. "Anything else would have been indecent."

  


The Doctor looked at him for a long moment. "You want me to take you home now?" he finally asked.

  


Sherlock mulled the sentence over in his mind. "As opposed to taking me where?"

  


The Doctor threw him half of a look and shrugged.

  


Sherlock sized him up. "Are you... inviting me? To come with you?"

  


The Doctor shrugged again. "If you like."

"And where are we going exactly?"

"Whereever we like."

"Directly into trouble I suppose."

"Yeah, I'm afraid that can't really be helped."

He looked up, and Sherlock could have sworn the Doctor wiggled with his eyebrows.

"It could even be downright dangerous."

  


Sherlock couldn't help it, he barked out a laugh. "I don't know", he said. "I've got things to do. John wanted me to babysit on Tuesday, and there is a series of poisonings the police wanted me to take a look at..."

He stopped mid-sentence.

"I'm kidding, of course."

In five fast steps, he positioned himself next to the Doctor and what Sherlock assumed was the navigational controls. "What are we waiting for? Let's go!"

  


"And the babysitting?"

"Rosie has two other Godparents and a four months sober aunt. I'm sure John can arrange something."

"And the poisonings?"

"Nah. I probably wouldn't have taken the case anyways. It's just some poisonings. I'm sure the police can solve that on their own if they think _really_ hard. Whatever." Sherlock clasped his hand together. "So, where to first?"

  


"Any requests?"

"Oh, you let me choose?"

The Doctor shrugged again. "All of Time. All of Space. Pick something."

  


Sherlock thought about it.

All of time and space.

He could pick anything!

He could... no, not that. Not for his first time travel.

He could... no, not that either. Too cold.

He could... no, not the victorian age. It was his favourite age in history, but it was just too obvious. He couldn't be boring now.

  


The more he thought about it he realized he didn't know enough about that world he was about to enter to come up with something good.

  


"Surprise me", he said.

 


	6. I Intermezzo I

John?

**Yes, Mycroft?**

Why did you bring me here?

**I just...really needed a drink after this day. And this place has a _great_ atmosphere.**

Let me rephrase my question: Why did you bring _me_ here?

**Aw, come on, loosen up a bit, will you? Here, have another schnapps!**

This is not schnapps! This is turpentine with herbs!

**We can get you something else, if you like.**

Did I say I want something else? Hands off the bottle, Doctor!

**All right, jeez, you're really in a mood, huh? Oh... that... that were a lot of shots in fifteen seconds...**

John, am I a bad person?

**...hm?**

Me. Am I a bad person?

**Uh. Where is this coming from?**

I always put myself in the service of a higher purpose. You must understand that, you joined the army.

**I guess so?**

I consider myself loyal. To my family, and my country, and I do my best to ensure the well-being of both. Why are you laughing?

**I'm sorry, just, Mycroft Holmes, The Ultimate Helicopter Parent.**

Lately I've been feeling like there's this...unstable element of, of chaos, that meddles with all my good intentions and suurs them. Seorse them. Sours...things go bad. Why is this bottle empty?"

**I'll order a new one.**

It seems bad business practice, selling empty bottles.

**Yes, hi, another bottle of...that, please. I'm sorry Mycroft, where were we?**

Element of chaos.  
 **What's that?**

It's people not doing things as I calculated. It's people, going of and doing what they want. Everything could be neat and orderly, but then people go and do stuff. Disgusting habit, that.

**That pesky free will.**

Exactly. What do you think, when is Sherlock coming back?

**Oh! Uhm. I'm sure they'll get back to us as soon as possibly-**

He's off with the Doctor travelling through time and space, isn't he?  
 **Yeah, he is.**

That's just like him. Having fun. Ugh. I took on responsibillities, you know?

**Yes, Mycroft.**

And I fulfilled those responsibillites. And now I'm the bad guy for doing so.

**No, hey, Mycroft, I wouldn't say that.**

You mean well, and things go bits up!

**That's not how the saying goes.**

I wonder what Sherlock's up to right now.

**'Right now' is a bit of a relative term here, don't you think?**

You know what - Oh dear! What was that crash?

**Oh thank God, a brawl! Mycroft, get up.**

Why?

**Because we're going to have some fun now!**

 


	7. Too Crunchy To Be Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I'm sorry, did you think this fic was finished?

"Now, usually", the Doctor said, "this is where you step out and be enchanted."

 

Sherlocks' eyes shifted unsure between the old man and the TARDIS' door for a few seconds.

 

"So we are somewhere entirely else now? Just a few minutes, and we are – where exactly?"

"You wanted to be surprised. There's your surprise. Go ahead, open the door."

 

Eager, but with the same sense of waryness one gets when someone hands you a small box with a hole in it and says "Go ahead! Put your hand in it! I promise there isn't a spider in there!", Sherlock went ahead and opened the door, just a bit, to take a careful peak through the crack.

 

When he pulled his head back in he was indeed surprised.

"Okay, so, first impression; This is a dump."

 

The Doctor's face fell, and he made to leave out the door himself.

"I said 'be enchanted', not "leave a devastating yelp!review...' "

 

When he pushed back Sherlock and took the sight in himself, he had to concede: "Alright, so I didn't park at the prettiest spot."

 

"Or the most clean." Sherlock followed him out and stepped carefully over a puddle of something oily. A stench crawled happily in his nose that he couldn't quite place. What was that? There was also a lot of noise, above him, and further down the badly lit corridor, around the corner, rumbling noise, machinery, and people yelling, and screeching and sounds that Sherlock couldn't really put in any category, and he could even feel a faint vibrating through the floor.

 

"Is this the inside of a space ship? Did you land _your_ space ship in _another_ space ship?"

 

And what was that smell?

 

"No, of course not", the Doctor said and started to walk down the corridor, Sherlock close behind. "Keep guessing though, this is fun."

 

"I'm not _guessing_. I'm deducing."

 

They turned a corner and Sherlock went "oh".

 

The environment might have been entirely unfamiliar, but the londoner in Sherlock recognised a port dock when he saw one.

 

Big space ships, being entered, loaded and left by strange figures of all possible shapes and colours, small roundabouts, some getting washed with sponges and buckets of foamy water, some with their entrances wide open to display wares for selling. Flocks of more strange figures walked around, transporting luggage, and finally Sherlock knew that that smell was a variation of that familiar air produced when lots and lots of people came together in a liminal space, changed their underwear, dumped out their trash, and left again.

 

"There's the enchantment", the Doctor said, grinning widely at Sherlock's expression that could only be described as 'dull surprise'. "Welcome to Calibris!"

 

After everything he had encountered in the last hours, Sherlock recovered quite quickly from the sight of hundreds of space ships. "This is a... space port?"

 

The Doctor nodded.

 

"Is Calibris the name of the town, or the planet?"

 

"It's the planet", the Doctor said as they walked on, "fully mechanical. Mind the grease."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "The entire _planet_ is man-made?"

"Not exactly _man_ , but yes."

 

Sherlock scanned his suroundings for labels, ads, building plaques, anything that could give him information on this place. Several big white and yellow striped vending machines had been put up, so he _supposed_ there was some sort of sponsoring happening? But nobody really seemed to feel the obligation to clean up. Frustratingly there was nothing that answered the questions that bubbled up inside him.

 

"This must have cost a fortune", he started, "are there a lot of planets like this? How does it pay? Is Calibris a franchise? A colony? An idealistic utopian enterpise maybe? How far beneath the surface are we right now? Who _runs_ this thing?"

"Those are some nice and good questions." The Doctor stopped a tall caped figure with what appeared to be a mechanical head, that had been smoothly moving past them. "Excuse me, who's managing Calibris right now?"

 

Whirring and beeping noises and the singing of whales came from the dephths of the figure's body, as it said: "That would be the Milkomeda Fizzy Drink Group."

And thus the figure glided on its way.

 

Sherlock stared after it perplexed. Despite its appearance, that had not been a machine. A machine would have waited for the Doctor to end the conversation. That had been a person! An alien person, imagine that.

And it spoke english. Very interesting.

 

When Sherlock finally came to himself again, he found that the Doctor had already walked on without him. It was a testament to the culture shock he was experiencing right now that he, as he was about to hurry after him, almost bumped into a small family of blue yaks walking on their hind legs.

 

"Milkomeda Fizzy Drink", the Doctor nodded to himself, unaware of Sherlock's minor struggle to accept a multitude of new life forms he'd never seen before, keeping up with the Doctor, and not falling over a blue furry toddler with tiny horns, saying _Excuse me, sorry, so sorry_ while doing so, "nice, they're always trying to expand into different industries, and they always leave a mess. They'll go bankrupt in hundred and fifty years, you know? Have you ever tried Milko Milk? It's quite good. Not sure if there's even milk in it though. Too crunchy to be milk, if you ask me."

 

Angry shouting arose from one of the bigger ships, a spotless clean and smooth object painted silver (the shell material somehow reminded Sherlock simultaneously of both ceramic and aluminium) that took the shape of a pentagonal antiprism with a flattened nose that poked proudly upwards, and when Sherlock looked up the let down side chute, he saw what he could only describe as a two meters tall crystalline-golden grasshopper stand in the open door and laying into a short, thin purple person dressed in a white-and-yellow striped overall.

 

"This is a disgrace!" the grasshopper being screeched (how could it possibly speak english with a mouth like that, with those grasshopper mandibles and the fangs), while the purple...employee, as Sherlock gathered from the vending machine colours on the uniform, looked bored and resigned.

 

"It's regulation", Purple sighed, "like it or not, you have to follow - "

They were cut short with a squeek as the grasshopper grabbed them by the button-down collar and heaved them up.

 

"Hey there", the Doctor yelled up, "what's the situation?"

 

Purple failed to swallow down several whimpers before they spoke up, their feet still dangling in the air and their eyes staring down into the shining brown bug eyes in front of them. "Uh... ac...according to the of..ffficial regulations of Milkomeda fffFizzy Drink Group, Corporation Registered by Trading Law of Unified Planets, any drink brought into Calibris that has not been produced by the, uh, Milkomeda Fizzy Drink Group has to be confiscated... Ma'am, please let me down? I'm not making the rules. I just work here, please?"

 

"They're taking our water!", the grasshopper snarled, but she did put the quivering mess back down softly.

 

Sherlock peeked into the ship and could spot several grasshoppers looking quite similar to the first one, sitting defiantly on barred metal boxes, waiting for orders.

The first grasshopper went on: "We need to land here. Our engines need cooling down. Our Children need to step out and move. We do not need for you to steal our supplies!"

Purple hurried to straighten their collar. "Look, I get you, but it's regulation..."

 

With quick steps, the Doctor was up the chute and fiddled in his pockets. Sherlock was close behind.

"What's your name?" the Doctor asked.

Purple straightened up valiantly to their full 130 centimeters. "Fillyten, sir, assistant valet worker number 465b slash grey."

 

The Doctor had finally found what he was looking for and pulled out his wallet, whipping it out with a practiced hand movement to show Fillyten something. "I'm the Doctor. Department manager of accounting. Go take a break, I'll handle this."

 

Sherlock couldn't see what it was the Doctor had in his wallet, but likely, since he was quite sure that the time-travelling alien and also somehow his brothers' superior was not even part-time employed by a soft drink corporation, it was a library card or something similar. A trick he had used himself during cases on occasion.

 

With visible relief on their face, Fillyten hastened down the chute.

 

"You're not an accountant", the grasshopper stated flatly.

 

"No, but I am the Doctor." The Doctor put his wallet back in his pocket. "And you are quite far from the nearest noraleen outpost."

 

The grasshopper raised her head proudly. "We are on our way to our new colony."

 

"Ah", the Doctor smiled, "Always Onwards, People of Noraleen, Onwards is the Only Way, eh?"

 

"What is that?", Sherlock asked, his head swimming in new impressions.

 

"Their version of 'Keep calm and carry on', in a way."

 

The Noraleen seemed to eye Sherlock hesitantly. "And who is your friend, Doctor?"

 

"This is Sherlock-"

"Oh, we are not friends", Sherlock chimed in.

"He is from earth-"

"I don't mean I dislike him, it's just, we met barely eight hours ago-"

"Well, sixhundred years ago, more like, give or take eight hours."

Sherlock couldn't quite believe it. "Sixhundred years? Really?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"That ride with the Fulminaton really put on a strain on some of the TARDIS' screws. I need new ones."

"Hold on. We traveled sixhundred years into the future for some screws?"

"They're special screws. Not easy to get outside of this time period."

 

"Ahem" came the polite cough from the noraleen.

 

"I'm so sorry", Sherlock extended his hand, "Sherlock Holmes."

 

"Karoon Shumti of The Coast." Karoon Shumti of The Coast did not move.

 

"Ah", Sherlock said, "you don't... shake hands..."

 

"They do", the Doctor hissed, leaning over to Sherlock's ear "but only when they ask someone to join them in wedlock."

 

Horrified, Sherlock put his hand down quickly. "I apologize. I'm new to. Uhm. Everything."

 

"I see", Karoon Shumti of The Coast said coldly.

 

"I don't get out that much", he tried for levity.

 

"That is comforting to know."

 

"Anyways!", the Doctor said and put his hands on Sherlocks' shoulder to guide him slowly away," We need to be going now. Nice to meet you. Goodbye!"

 

Sherlock felt the Doctor gently pulling him away from the scene of his embarassment and went with him willingly, still in shock.

 

"Well, that was deeply embarassing", Sherlock grumbled, "the last time I proposed to a woman without meaning it, it was at least part of a cunning plan. At least I didn't get shot this time."

 

"Don't worry too much about it", the Doctor said, "it happens."

 

"Oh what, do you accidentally proppose to a lot of people?"

 

"Plenty. There was this mayan woman. She was a good sport about it. Queen Elisabeth never quite forgave me though-"

 

"Queen Elisabeth?"

 

"The First, yeah."

 

"You - "

 

"- sort of let her stand at the altar."

 

"...I feel that, as an englishman, I should take deep offense to that."

 

"And, do you?"

 

"No, I don't really care."

 

Once the two men had gotten far away enough from the noraleen ship, they slowed their pace and Sherlock tried to take in the new impressions of his surroundings.

 

There was so much.

 

It was not only that he was surounded by new life forms, it was the new smells too, and noises he had never heard before, unknown tools unknown stains unknown objects decorating unknown fabrics unknown gestures that Sherlock didn't know the meaning of -

He had to close his eyes for a second and breathe out slowly. He was overwhelmed. He had never felt so out of his element before in his life.

 

"I have a question", Sherlock admitted.

"Only one? Then you're doing well."

"How come that in sixhundred years, the predominant language in space is twentyfirst century english?"

"It isn't."

"But-"

"The TARDIS is translating for you."

"Are you- hang on, are you saying the TARDIS is _in my head_?"

"Yes."

"...I'm not sure I like this."

"Why? It's practical."

"It's intrusive."

"Are the cookies on your phone and your computer intrusive?"

"That's different."

"How so?"

"Well, it's my head. How do I know your thingy doesn't... change things?"

"Everything you do changes things. If things don't change, you're not doing it right." The Doctor threw him a look. "Besides, it's not the worst thing you can do to your brain. Haven't you hinted before to a drug-fuelled past?"

"That's different too."

"How so?"

"I always know exactly what I take."

"Ah, so it's a matter of consent to you?"

"Yes, exactly. Consent, thank you."

"Then I guess I should have asked you before I put that fish in your ear?"

Sherlocks' hand snapped up protectively to his head. "Fish? What fish?"

The Doctor snorted. "Little joke there. You should read more books."

"I do read books. Lots of them."

"Well, read even more then. Watch the corntans."

"The... wha-"

Sherlock was jerked out of the way by the Doctor before he could be run over by an open motorized carriage driven by a bulky figure covered entirely in a shiny poncho-like wraparound, several smaller wraparounds sitting behind.

 

"Watch where you're going, stupid! Damn atties! They're everywhere!"

 

"Sorry!", Sherlock called feebly after the angry driver. "I'm very much off my game today."

 

"Don't take it to hard", the Doctor said. "Corntans generally keep to themselves. They're not friendly towards people outside their own species."

"What was it he called me? An..."

"Attie. Outsider. Non-corntan."

"What, like a slur?"

"I'm afraid so, yes. They just joined the intergalactic comunity. They don't care much for it yet."

 

Sherlock shrugged uncomfortably.

 

"What is it?", asked the Doctor.

"Just... I told you, I'm not very good with people on the best of days. And I've not even been here for fourty minutes, and I've already offended someone without even meaning to. I don't want to come across as...", he searched for the right words, failed, sighed, and pointed behind him, where the corntan driver carried on to give air to his bad mood. "That."

 

The Doctor smiled, turned, and walked on. "You are a white english cisgender man with no awareness of societal norms living in twentyfirst century England", he said. "I'm betting everything in my left coat pocket that you have already come across like _that_ plenty of times in your life and never even noticed."

"That's not very assuring."

"Good. Wasn't meant to be."

"Alright, but what do I do?"

"Just observe. That's kind of your thing, isn't it? Listen to people. Do your best, and trust in your sense of decency!"

Sherlock snorted. "Decency! What makes you think I have that?"

"What makes you think you're above it? You know, I've seen a chimpanse dragging a drowning cat out of a river once. You're a smart guy, Sherlock. If the chimpanse gets it, you can figure it out as well."

 

 

Sherlock gazed over his suroundings, still rather disoriented, but with time, like stumbling around in the night with the lights off while your eyes adjust to the dark, he started to pick up on _some_ things. Like the boxes and bottles that a lot of aliens were carrying, with white and yellow striped labels slapped over the original tags, some more sloppily than others. Obviously, he noted, strolling around like a lost but high-spirited puppy, nobody was even remotely impressed by the managements' embargo and took to smuggling with the air of someone sneaking snacks into the theater.

 

"Ooh", Sherlock said as he spotted some sketchy characters selling counterfeit Milkomeda labels underhand, "crime in space. Very nice."

 

He looked around to see if the Doctor shared his appreciation for this, but found himself alone.

 

"Uhm", Sherlock called out, "Doctor?"

 

But the old man was gone.

 

 _Well_ , thought Sherlock to himself, _this is a little bit... not good. Not good at all. In fact, this has the potential to turn out very bad. But not to fret. I'm a detective. I find people for a living._

 

_  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

"... and that is why Calibris was built, and now you know why it's forbidden to sell bubble-gum on Alpha Centauri", the Doctor finished his lecture. He turned around in the hopes to catch Sherlocks' interested listening-face.

"Ah", the Doctor realized, "you're not here. You've wandered off. Naturally. How silly of me to expect otherwise."

_  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

Sherlock was beginning to get worried.

 

He had tried to ask around if anyone had seen the Doctor, but it was a large place, the traffic was fast and nobody paid any attention to anything but their own business. Then he had tried to trace his way back to the TARDIS, only to find that the sensory and cultural overload he was still struggling with also messed with his sense of direction. Then he had tried to find his way back to the last spot where he had seen the Doctor, and that was when he admitted to himself that he, Sherlock Holmes, was indeed lost. An appropiate ending to a mind-blowing, worldview shattering, overwhelming day.

 

Sherlock sat down. Right where he was, at the edge of a wired-in bridge that connected two indescribable gigantic metal somethings with each other, he let himself slump on a small round metal something.

 

"Friend, are you alright?", asked him a fellow passenger, a friendly wrinkly face on a body dressed in wide green felt clothes, except that the felt was glittering in the dark environment like freshly fallen snow in the morning sun.

 

"Yeah, sure, I'm alright", Sherlock assured the man. Or was he a man? Did other races from other worlds even have men?

 

"Are you sure, friend? You seem distraught. I can tell, you know, I'm an empath."

 

And that _would_ have been the moment that Sherlock irretrievably _snapped_ , had this person not said it with an air of such soft kindness and sincerity that suddenly made Sherlock think of Mrs Hudson.

 

_Are you all right dear?_

 

Sherlock breathed.

 

"Actually", he said, letting of steem gently, _gently_ , not to frighten off this nice alien, "I've had a bit of a day."

 

"Oh, poor you, I'm sorry to hear that", the wrinkly face said, and Sherlock wasn't sure how, but he knew that they meant it, and without actively deciding, he went on:

 

"I've lost my ride, and now I'm stranded on the wrong planet, in the wrong time period, I'm entirely decontextualised and I think I'm getting a headache. And to round it all up, I tried to help my baby sister but now I think I might have caused her death."

 

"Oh, dear, that's awful! You must feel terrible"

 

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "We had a difficult relationship, you know?"

 

With kind orange eyes the wrinkly face sized Sherlock up.

  
"What do you think", they eventually asked, "of coming with me and getting stupefyingly drunk?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tenth Doctor visited Calibris with Donna in the Big Finish audio drama Time Reaver, written by Jenny Colgan.


	8. What Are You Even Looking For?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite appeareances, there is a plot, and it is about to thicken.

 

**18:06 local time**

 

"I'm looking for a human, about that tall, no, look where my hand is going, see? That tall. With a coat on, and, I don't know, he has, like, a face? With the, with a pair of eyes, I think? And then there's hair on top of him that goes all 'Whoosh'...". The Doctor raised one hand above his head and waved erratically.

 

The small green fuzzy sphere hang in the air, radiating a light telepathic surge of having no idea what the Doctor was talking about.

 

He dropped his hand in frustration.

 

"Thanks anyway" he grumbled, and the sphere shot away as if pulled by an invisible string.

 

 _I thought this was a smart one_ the Doctor thought as he walked down the hallway, _why do they always wander off? They're like those jumpy things. In a bag. Fleas. And you open the bag and the fleas are gone. Where would I even find a bag that big? Hang on, I'm loosing the bigger picture. He's a logical man, where would be the most logical place to meet me? Where would I meet me?_

 

"Screws!" he concluded, startling some passer-by's, and buzzed off to the supply dealer he came here to see in the first place.

 

 

**18:11 local time**

 

Sherlock had followed Latuum, his new aquaintance, into a dimly lit passage way. They halted underneath a small broken neon sign and Latuum shoved a thick brown blanket hanging from the ceiling aside to give way to a room in the wall. The actual door had been taken off, burst out by a flying object with heavy mass, judging by the state of the hinges.

 

The inside of the room was badly lit by a blue glowing cube that dangled dangerously on a single wire, the three other wires that were meant to hold it had already snapped ages ago. The place was crammed with tables and chairs, although there was only one person in the room with them, short, sitting on one of the bar stools at the counter. The counter itself, Sherlock spotted underneath the smooth silken woven covers, was improvised from discarded metal containers. A white isopod, large as a human eyeball, sat trustful in a snack bowl and feasted on crumbs.

 

"I've seen worse", Sherlock said, truthfully (there was a _very_ horrible fries shack in Omsk he had once had lunch in).

 

Latuum, taking this for an understated compliment, beamed at him.

 

Then he started to shout.

 

"Customers!", he shouted, loud enough that the only other guest jumped in their seat, "I bring customers! Sarah, where are you?"

 

In the wall behind the bar counter, an automatic door opened. Not automatically, mind you, it was shoved violently to the side by a sturdy woman in her late fifties who angrily muttered under her breath ("I told them. I told them to fix the sensors but when do they ever listen. Stupid broken fully automatic door, stupid expired warranty, stupid son of a-")

 

She wore a crocheted brown vest over a millefleurs blouse and her brown hair with grey streaks in a bun. The platin ring on her left hand matched the one Sherlock had seen hanging on a chain on Latuums' neck, occasionally glistening in the opening of the collar.

 

She seized her muttering to look Sherlock up and down. Then she looked at Latuum.

 

"Singular", she grunted. "You brought _one_ customer. And you were _supposed_ to bring dish soap."

 

Sherlock couldn't stop himself. "Are you human? Actually human?"

 

She glanced at him coldly. "Don't tell me you're one of those 'human purity' supporters, I might just shoo you out with my broom."

 

Sherlock shook his head eagerly at the same time the person sitting on the bar stool snapped their head up to snicker.

 

"You guys own a broom? Are you saving that for special occasions?"

 

In the poor blue light, this was the first proper look Sherlock got at this person. "Fillyten, isn't it? We have just met."

 

Fillyten visibly paled. "I'm on my break", he said and tried to hide a bottle of something old and refined and deep green and definetly not Milkomeda brand behind a pile of dirty glasses.

"It's okay", Sherlock chuckled, "I'm not working for your guys. I couldn't care less what you have there." Then he turned back to Sarah, who still eyed him with distain. "I assure you, I don't support human purity, I don't support anything, I'm very anti-support. It's just been a really long day, and I mean, the longest day ever, and I'm glad to meet a fellow, uh, you know, countrywoman? Planetwoman? Compatriot?"

 

"By the gods", Sarah said, "you're weird. If I give you alcohol, will you shut up?" But she relaxed visibly.

 

Sherlock took a seat at the counter. Latuum grinned widely and bent over to peck a kiss on Sarah's face, then started to explain: "So this is Sarah, my spouse, my...what do you call it, plumpsken?"

 

"Your wife, honeybear, I'm your wife", came the gruff voice from underneath the counter, for Sarah had started to rummage in their collection of bottles.

 

"Wifffffe", Latuum tested the word in their mouth with a smirk, and to Sherlock's delight sharp little fangs poked out of their mouth.

 

Sarah came up again with a bottle of gin. "Latti's people have no concept of gender. Never heard of it. I think they think it's something like being a summer type or a winter type."

 

Sherlock gave a quick nod as she filled him a glass and drowned it in one go.

 

"Good stuff?", Sarah asked, amused.

 

"Nope", Sherlock quipped, "but at least it's something familiar." He peeked over into whatever it was Fillyten was having. "Is that good?", he asked.

Fillyten shrugged and poured one finger full into Sherlock's empty glass.

 

Whatever it was, it wasn't as alcoholic as expected, but it was minty and sharp and knocked the self-pity right out of him. Sherlock just about surpressed a cough and nodded in appreciation.

 

"Take the bottle then", Fillyten said and got up, "break's over. Sarah, put what I had on my tab?"

 

"Alright", she said, and Fillyten got out as Sherlock poured himself a second glass. He had no idea how to pay for it, as the only currency he had with him was british Pound, but he figured that was a problem for later.

 

 

**18:42**

 

Holding a paper bag with eight spinal pull-screws, the Doctor exited the little supply shop. There had been no Sherlock. Back to square one, then. Or at least square two. He _did_ at least have the screws he needed now, after all.

 

It was not far from the shop that he met a familiar face, although not the one he was looking for.

 

"You!", Karoon Shumti of The Coast said.

 

"Me", the Doctor agreed.

 

"It is very convenient that I meet you. You might help me. I'm looking for someone I lost."

 

"That makes two of us."

 

Shumti looked around for a second. "The...", she dangled her thin arm in a mock shaking hands motion, "...the clueless one?"

  
"Yep, that guy. I turned around and he was gone. Who are you looking for?"

 

"His name is Karmond Pomnish from The Mines. He wanted to take a stroll and didn't come back. He's very old and his family is worried, naturally. Do you think the two disappearances are connected?"

 

"That's possible, but it's too early to say. But if you're looking for someone, and I'm looking for someone, it makes sense to look together."

 

"Agreed."

 

 

**19:40**

 

"... so it seems I'm stuck here, and as your husb- your, your significant other suggested, I thought the most reasonable strategy would be to drown my sorrows and worry about the rest later."

 

"Hmh", said Sarah.

 

"You don't believe me."

 

She put down the glass she was polishing. "Honestly, some things about your story are hard to believe. I've heard some people mention that time travel is a thing, but I don't know if I believe in that?"

 

"Our guest is telling the truth, plumsken, I can feel it", came the voice from the other end of the bar, where Latuum was busy wiping off tables, or rather, swatting a rag in the general direction of a table in the vain hope of killing a fly, maybe.

 

Sarah nodded some new guests welcome that had just entered and turned back to Sherlock. "Very well", she said, "so you're a time traveller. Don't have any money, I suppose?"

"Ah. None that is still in use, I guess."

 

She tipped a finger against his glass.

"Then how do you intend to pay?"

 

"I was kinda hoping you wouldn't catch on to that part of the story."

 

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

 

"Most people are idiots. At least, last I checked they were. Maybe that has changed in the meantime, I don't know. Listen, maybe I can work it off? I'll need a job anyway if I'm gonna stay here."

 

"Nobody stays here for long, buddy."

 

"Aw, come on, Calibis doesn't seem that bad."

  
"I meant this bar."

 

"Oh. Yes, it is quite disgusting in here."

 

"Oi!"

 

"I'm sorry, why do _you_ think you can't hold on to your staff?"

 

"That's fair. Have you ever worked as a bartender?"

 

"I was a french waiter once for two minutes?"

 

"No you weren't."

 

"Yes I was. I had a mustache and everything."

 

"Do you know how to make a Zero Gravity Flip?"

 

"I'm sorry?"

 

"It's a drink."

 

"Ah. No."

 

"A palean wine spritzer?"

 

"No. But I'm a quick learner."

 

 

**20:20**

 

"Is it me or is it getting stuffy in here?" the Doctor asked as they walked down the main passage route.

 

"You are old", Kumti said, "perhaps we should rest."

 

"Rude. No, no the air is definetly getting muggier as we go on. You just haven't noticed it yet because Noraleen breathe through spiracles."

 

Kumti slowed her pace and took several deep breaths. As her abdomen moved up and down, her antennaes started to wiggle.

 

"You're right", she finally said, "the air is getting bad. And do you smell something foul as well?"

 

"In here? Constantly. But I guess this is not what you meant."

 

"No! No, I smell... death. I smell death." Though her voice and posture stayed calm, Kumti's eyes flickered, betraying her nervousness.

 

 

**21:23**

 

Sherlock had found himself in a bit of a bother.

 

Currently, he was staring down the wrong end of a heavy looking high-tech rifle, held by what he couldn't, for the life of him, describe as anything else than a short agressive potato head.

 

"What did I _do_?", he yelped, more frustrated than scared.

 

"Well, you were kinda rude" Sarah offered drily as she shuffled away as far as possible from the line of fire, carrying a six-pack of marsian beer to safety.

 

"I'm always rude. Rude is my default setting. You're going to have to be more specific."

 

"You disrespected me, Bristox Grell!", the potato barked. "I demand satisfaction. Prepare to kill or be killed in the name of the glorious Sotaran Empire!"

 

"Oh for goodness' sake, I just asked you what made you change from soldier to nurse!"

 

"Yeaaah", Latuum drawled, "that's a bit of a soft spot for her."

"Him, Latti."

"Him, so sorry. Sherlock, could you try not to die bleeding out on any of the tables or chairs? Actually, Bristox, could you wait with your duell for a bit? I'll make some space."

 

"You could help me?", Sherlock tried.

 

"Nah", Sarah said "best to let this resolve on it's own."

 

 

**21:38**

 

"You're not actually Department manager of accounting, are you?" Fillyten asked.

 

The Doctor, busy standing on a stepladder and opening an air vent duct with his sonic screwdriver, didn't even look down.

 

"No, but I still need you to do as I asked."

 

"What for? I can't just have all air vents of this sector opened for fun."

 

"In a couple of hours you're going to have to do it anyways, when the complains come in. People will start to get sick, and whose responsibillity will that be?"

 

Fillyten swallowed.

 

"What are you even looking for?"

 

The Doctor didn't answer, because at that moment the last screw came loose and the barrier slid into Kumti's waiting arms.

 

"My people can smell death", she explained.

  
"That sounds like hogwash."

 

"It's not hogwash, it's chemistry", the Doctor said, "Noraleen smell differently than you or I. If she says that she smells something, there is definetly something to be smelled." And then he proceeded to cawl into the vent.

 

"Still, you're trying to tell me that 'Death is coming', that's a bit of a-"

 

"Death is not coming", Kumti insisted, "Death is already here."

 

"Wha-what are you trying to say?"

 

"I'm saying this: Somebody has died. A Noraleen. The one I was looking for, probably. And the fact that I can smell this so clearly here, where there is no wind, means that the odour is distributed through the ventilation system."

 

The Doctor had crawled back out of the vent and stepped down the ladder.

 

"Nothing in there", he declared. Then he turned to Fillyten. "What all this means is that you have three problems now. One: You have a clogged oxygen feed somewhere and dozens up to hundreds of breathing people. Two: There is a dead person in your ventilation system and you don't know where, and C: How did the body get in there? Not to be alarmist but I call murder."

 

 

**21:30**

 

"It's no so bad."

 

Bristox Grell downed a bottle of ale in one go before he considered Sherlock with a reply. "What?"

 

"Being a nurse. No, don't get up again, I mean it." Sherlock swayed slightly in his seat as he straightened up. He had managed to calm down Bristox by inviting him to a drinking bout, and the alcohol was now finally getting to him.

 

"It's a humilation!", Bristox started again, but Sherlock put up a badly coordinated arm to pacify him.

 

"I get that! I get that you have a thing going on and... stuff. But, _but_! Listen! Consider this: Yeah?!"

 

Bristox stared at him for several seconds. "There seem to be parts of your sentence missing. Maybe you had enough, girl."

 

"Boy."

 

"Boy then."

 

"And don't call me boy, it's disrespectful. Name's Sherlock." Sherlock coughed and tried again. "There's this bloke, John Watson. He's an army captain. And he's a doctor. He's both. Bravest man I know. Full of honour. Full of rage. Great haircut too. You should totally meet him."

 

"I drink to that, Sherlock", Bristox opened the new bottle Latuum had put between them wordlessly and poured two generous glasses for them. He raised his own glass and Sherlock followed.

 

"May we die gloriously", Bristox declared.

 

"Sure why not", Sherlock shrugged and they downed their drinks. Bristox put his glass down, refilled the glasses again, and eyed Sherlock carefully.

 

"You don't believe in dying for the greater cause."

 

"Nooo", Sherlock agreed, "I don't."

 

"But look at you, running through life without cause or direction, never part of anything greater than your own dwindling existence. I will die but the Sotaran Empire will live on. Despite everything, I have my oath. What do you have?"

 

Sherlock thought about it. "I have sworn an oath", he then said quietly. "Nothing as grand as you have. I just swore to protect a family." He took another sip from his drink.

 

"And where is that family now?"

 

Eyes suddenly sober, he stared into the blue liquid before him. "One of them died. To save me."

 

"And you abandoned the rest?"

 

"No!", Sherlock said, pointedly and decidedly. "No, I'm still there for them."

 

"But you failed."

 

"...yes."

 

"Then we have both disgraced ourselves."

  
"Hmh."

 

Bristox raised his glass again. "We shall both overcome our neglect in time."

 

"Well said", Sherlock forced a smile on his face, clinked glasses with Bristox and downed the rest.

 

"You know", Sherlock said after a while, "my friend, who died, she used to be sort of a warrior too, and then she was a nurse. Just like you. She would have liked you."

 

"How did she die?"

 

Sherlock didn't really want to talk about that anymore. "I guess you could say she died in battle."

 

"Good for her! We shall honour her memory." And the glasses were filled again.

 


End file.
